#toward themselves or others. world’s ugly enough don’t we think

[novelconcepts]

This might be my age showing, but I really wish we’d lose the “kill yourself”/“we have to have them killed” response to artists who just don’t appeal to the individual. It is…unpleasant to keep staggering across. I get it, you don’t want to see that person anymore, but like. Dude. That is a disproportionate reaction to art you don’t like.

[hemlock-dreams]

Hypothetically, if you were going to write hunting!spider as a fic, how would you do it? Like, where would the story start—with Peter as the bartender, or his backstory? Would you flash back to his old universe?

-🕊️

Like this:

Peter hasn’t worn the suit since here got here. He hasn’t done much in the last two months of his new existence beyond haunting New York like a phantom, trying to figure out who he is and where he stands in a reality that hasn’t been unfortunate enough to have a Peter Parker in the first place.

Or a Spiderman.

Strange hadn’t been kidding about the magic. Peter feels like the victim of his own hubris, asking for a clean start, a world where no one knew him. He’d asked and he’d been delivered.

Almost. 

The world is there, technically, but it’s like looking at a painting he’s seen a thousand times, only to realize the details are off. It’s the phones with the home button on the bottom, the different slang, the green money, all his favorite songs with wildly different lyrics, so many painful differences- a slow death by a thousand cuts.

Peter thought it would be easier, like a new beginning stretching out ahead of him, the sea-breeze smell of a fresh start after stepping out of Ryker’s. 

But Uncle Ben isn’t waiting for him at the docks this time. Nothing is waiting except the uncanny arms of a city that used to know him. Like running into an ex after years apart, recognizing the same general shape, but being strangers all the same.

Damn it. He should have asked Strange to take his memories too.

At least then Peter would know what to do with himself instead of haunting Brooklyn at night like a ghost, fighting the cognitive dissonance of taking turns he used to know like the back of his hand, only to be startled when they lead into dead-ends or open out into streets that shouldn’t exist.

That’s why he hasn’t worn the suit. Because forget being Spiderman, who the hell is Peter, here?

His melancholy is interrupted by a woman’s voice, faint if not for Peter’s enhanced senses.

“Listen, you’re a sweet guy, but I don’t like mixing work and my personal life.” The voice is extra sweet in the way women get when trying to talk themselves out of a dangerous situation.

No matter the lifetime, Peter can’t ignore that.

So he changes course, beelining towards the source with silence that’s more instinct than experience. He sticks to the shadows, easily avoiding the few flickering streetlights between him and the alleyway. His night vision pierces the darkness, tracing down the detailed shape of the tall, lanky man cornering a woman in the middle of the alley. 

He’s leaning, off-balance, clearly drunk, and boxing her in with one leather-clad arm, “Come on, Scarlett. I been asking for your number for weeks. Just one date, give a guy a chance, huh?”

Well, it was comforting to know that no matter the timeline, scum remained scum. 

“Paul, you’re wasted.” The woman- Scarlett, is draped against the wall, seemingly at ease and deceptively loose-limbed, even as she fists a set of keys between her knuckles, “Why don’t we have this discussion somewhere a little nicer? There’s a cute cafe that’s open tomorrow-”

“Fuck that. It’s always one excuse after another with you,” The guy- Paul- snarls, swaying from one foot to the other. The frustration is a ticking bomb,  “Why are you bein’ such a fucking bitch?”

Like clockwork, the slurs come out, and a peaceful resolution is no longer an option.

Scarlett realizes it too, because the hum of anxiety lacing her syrupy-sweet tone finally bleeds into her body. Her muscles lock, visibly entering fight or flight. 

That’s Peter’s cue.

“Is there a problem?” Peter’s voice is like a knife in the dark, popping the bubble and making the two flinch.

“Who the fuck are you?” Paul sneers, face slack and ugly from drink. “The fuck you think you’re doing, butting in?”

Peter ignores him, glancing towards Scarlett, who flicks her eyes between them and the rest of the alleyway. Unfortunately, there’s only one entrance and he’s blocking it. Out of options, Scarlett plasters herself to the wall.

“This is between the lady and me.” Paul is still talking, stumbling towards Peter, “But I’m a nice guy, so I’m going to give you a chance to turn ‘round and walk away.”

“Generous, but I’ll have to decline.” Peter murmurs and crosses the distance, invading his space before the man can respond. The promise of violence always lights something in Peter’s stomach, but for all the man’s shit-talking, the fight, if it can even be called that, is pathetic. Paul is so drunk Peter can taste it in the air, and his spidersense doesn’t even bother kicking in as he dodges one wobbly punch after the other. 

He doesn’t bother dragging it out. It only takes one good fist to the gut to drop Paul to the ground, followed by one good kick to the chest to keep him there. The aftermath is anticlimactic, awkward silence punctuated only by the rattling wheeze of the unconscious man beneath him.

Even pulling his punches, Peter probably cracked his ribs. It would take more effort than he’s got to feel sorry, especially since Scarlett is still glued to the wall, eyes trained on him and practically vibrating with adrenaline.

Slowly, Peter creates some space, backing out of the alleyway so he’s not obstructing the exit. “You gonna be alright?”

“Yeah.” Her reply is curt and wary, but Peter isn’t offended. He knows what he looks like, looming in the dark with his ratty clothes and unkempt beard. Best thing he can do to convince her of her safety is to walk away. 

So he does just that, and he’s almost halfway down the block when he hears her behind him, clacking heels loudly in the chill night air, “Wait!”

Peter pauses, turning around. 

Scarlett stops a few meters away, clutching the strap of her gym bag over her chest. “Sorry. That was rude of me. Thank you.”

Under the streetlights, her face is striking. Her bright green eyes are smoky and sensual, with bold cheekbones and dark lips framed by wisps of red hair falling out of a messy bun. She’s exactly the type of woman Peter would fantasize about back in Rykers, the kind he would see on pinups in Marko’s cell- tall and feminine, with lean legs and a waist Peter could span with both hands. 

The resolute look on her face reminds him so much of M-

He shunts that thought as soon as it appears.

“Don’t worry about it,” Peter responds with a shrug. He’s not stupid enough to lecture a grown woman about walking the streets at night. “Was there something else?”

Scarlett chews on her lip, eyes flicking back to the alley before settling on Peter for a few long beats. Whatever she sees in him makes her sigh, and some of the tension leeches from her shoulders. “Feel like walking a girl to her job?” 

Peter is a little surprised, and he takes a second to consider, mostly so he doesn’t look threatening, then nods, “Where to?” 

“Maggies.” At his confused look, she raises a brow, “Saint Margaret’s?” 

Still not ringing a bell, “Is that a…church?” He doesn’t remember any Saint Margaret’s in his Brooklyn, and it just reinforces that fish-out-of-water feeling that’s been choking him for the past few months.

“A church, sure.” Scarlett snorts derisively, laughing under her breath. When Peter doesn’t join in, she shoots him a wide-eyed look, “Oh. You’re serious. It’s an dance bar”  

Walking at night makes more sense now. That, and the obvious stage name. “I don’t know where that is. I’m…kind of new in town.”

“I can see that,” She says, and the gold of her hoop earrings catches the light as she falls in step beside him. Peter keeps his strides short and even, staying in her line of vision as they walk. It doesn’t escape his notice that she’s still got her keys between her knuckles, though they’re no longer clutched in a tight fist, “What brought you to New York, Mr. Good Samaritan?”

“Peter.” He says. “I was looking for a fresh start and kind of washed up here,” Peter feels like he’s being called out on some lie, as if anyone glancing in his direction will peg that he doesn’t belong.

But Scarlet is just nodding, unawares, “Nice to meet you, Peter. And I get it. That's why I moved here, too. It might take a bit of time to get your bearings, but it's worth it when you do." They’re heading down the street, taking a turn on 81st that should have led into a main thoroughfare but doesn’t, instead turning into another little set of streets full of gated-off shops covered in graffiti. Even the gang signs don’t look the same. He tries not to think about it.

“I appreciate what you did,” Scarlett is saying, “Paul’s been a pushy bastard but I thought it was all drunk bravado, you know? I never believed he’d actually follow me. I’m glad you were there, but I’m sorry it had to end in violence.”

Resorting to violence is one of Peter’s favorite pastimes, but he’s absolutely not going to admit that out loud. Instead, he hums, tucking his hands into his stained hoodie, “Some people only listen when it's fists talking. Hopefully the lesson sticks.” Peter frowns, “You said he followed you, does that mean he knows where you live?”

Men like that tend to hold grudges. Especially if they've been had their head knocked around in an alleyway.

“Thank god, no.” She shudders next to him, gripping the strap of her bag a little tighter at the thought, “He caught me coming from my day job. I’ll have to tell Weasel to put him on the blacklist for the club though…and change my shift. Ugh.” 

Peter nods in sympathy. Shiting schedules between two jobs is going to be a nightmare. “Weasel?” 

“The owner of Maggie’s.” She clarifies.

“Your boss is named Weasel?” Yikes. Peter can’t imagine what kind of shit someone had to do to earn that nickname.

“Yeah.” She laughs, “But don’t let the name fool you, he’s weird but he’s decent. There are lots of other clubs in the area but Weas lets us have a bigger cut than most other places. Plus, we get to set our own rules.” 

They cut the street, avoiding some dark patches where the streetlights gave out.

“That’s good.” Peter agrees, “Otherwise this is a pretty sketchy walk for a small paycheck.”  

It really is a sketchy walk, and his spidersense pings at odd moments, though nothing comes out of it save the odd junkie that wanders out of the shadows.

“I’ve had worse,” Scarlett shrugs, finally tucking her keys back into her purse. The stiff line of her shoulders has completely melted away now that they’re in what Peter assumes is familiar territory. “This is nothing compared to my last job.” 

“Which was?” 

“Telemarketing.”

Peter would rather take his chances soloing Thanos. “Point taken.” 

“We’re almost there. Just down the road.” Scarlett points one long acrylic nail toward a looming brick building punctuating the street. Peter wouldn’t have given it a second thought if not for the single garish neon sign of a scantily dressed nun at the corner, directing his attention towards a nondescript door.

“Welcome to Saint Margaret’s School for Wayward Children,” Scarlett enunciates each word with an eyebrow waggle, grinning when Peter cracks a smile. “Finest entertainment this side of Brooklyn. Thanks for walking me.” 

Peter doesn’t doubt it, especially if Scarlett is where they set the bar for dancers. “No worries. Stay safe, yeah?” Then he turns, intending to keep walking until his head is empty.

Scarlett pauses with her hand on the door, “You’re not going to come in?” 

“Not really my scene.” A true statement, one that doesn’t have to acknowledge that Peter is capital-b Broke. Hard to get a proper-paying job when he doesn’t legally exist. He’s done a few gigs under the table, but the last few weeks have left Peter sleeping on empty rooftops with an emptier stomach. 

“Really? I was hoping I could treat you to a drink. It’s the least I can do.” Scarlett sounds disappointed.

“You don’t owe me anything.” 

She puts a hand on her hip, “Fine. Let’s consider it a celebratory drink then.”

“For?”

“Ugh,” Scarlett rolls her eyes. There’s no way she doesn’t know how charming that is. “For getting rid of Paul. Making new friends- whatever you want.”

Peter huffs a small laugh, “Friends? We just met.” 

It’s not an outright refusal, because Peter is weak for the first real taste of human contact he’s had in months, and Scarlett smirks like she scents blood, “What can I say? I got a good feeling about you.”

Peter snorts. Now that’s a first. 

“C’mon, Tiger. One drink. What have you got to lose?”

Peter exhales a long, slow breath, “Nothing.”

[underground-secret]

The Hunter and the Witch~ Dean Winchester x f! reader

Description: While looking into a mysterious murder in Illinois, Sam, Dean, and Y/N come across Meg, an old 'friend' of Sam's, who may be far worse than they ever thought possible

Warnings: Cannon violence, the forensic details talked about—the blood splatter—should be some part accurate but i’m also not an expert so don’t take my word like it is—i’m just a nerd. Also!! no outfit for this one since there’s really none described and not one i’m really particularly picturing since this episode is very plot driven??

Tag list: @jesllianaquilesrolonsworld @okayiamkassandra @fablesrose @ada--44 @bonkydarnes @star-yawnznn @crazyunsexycool @onlyangel-444 , @seninjakitey @mystic-mara @mxltifxndom @stilesxreid @chaotic-luvrs @tiggytaylor @deanwasscaredbyacat

Word Count: 9,655

Shadow

(Master list, Prev Chapter, Next Chapter)

I pin my hair back as the Impala stops, claw clip holding back layers of hair in a half-up-half-down look. It was a last-ditch effort to make a dark blue jumpsuit look good, especially when it was a uniform jumpsuit.

I leave the car, closing the door behind me as Dean opens the trunk, pulling out a metal toolbox. It really completes the look. He closes the trunk and we move away from the car, crossing the street towards the victim's apartment. The three of us are matching in our getups, which lessens the embarrassment or awkwardness but doesn’t take away from the outfits themselves. “All right, this is the place,” Sam announces, stopping in front of the apartment building. “You know, I’ve gotta say Dad and I did just fine without these stupid costumes. I feel like a high school drama dork,” Dean comments and I’m glad at least someone agrees this costume sucks. He smiles, continuing, “What was that play that you did?” he asks Sam, “What was it…Our Town. Yeah, you were good, it was cute.” I look between the boys, smiling as I hit Sam’s shoulder, “Shut up! You were in a play?!” He scuffs and rolls his eyes. Dean laughs as he answers for his brother, “Yeah he was.”

“How come no one told me?” I ask, I mean seriously this feels like something Dean would’ve spilled to me. Dean’s eyebrows furrow, “I didn’t tell you?”

“No!” I exclaim, “Do you have pictures?” His smile brightens, a mischievous glint in his green eyes, “‘Course I do.”

“Okay, well now you’re obligated to show me,” I point out, excited to see the no-doubt adorable photos. “Are you guys done or what?” Sam asks, arms crossed against his chest. I nod with a tight-lipped smile. “And if you wanna pull this off then we need the costumes,” he adds, logically.

“And while that is a great point, I have to agree with Dean on this one. These outfits are ugly,” I complain.

“That wasn’t really my point,” Dean interjects. I purse my lips, “Shh, it was close enough. And you can’t say this isn't a borderline janitor or plumber,” I motion my hand up and down at the jumpsuit for emphasis. The only difference was the brown leather belt at the waist, which really added nothing to the look—it barely even accentuated the waistline. “I’m just sayin’, these outfits cost hard-earned money, okay?” Dean argues, getting back to his point.

“Whose?” Sam counters. Dean looks at him like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “Ours. ‘You think credit card fraud is easy?”

“Thanks for lettin’ us look around,” Sam starts, letting the landlady lead us into the apartment. A weird feeling crawls down my spine, something heavy and undoubtedly coming from the apartment. “Well, the police said they were done with the place, so…..” she led us further into the living room. The white carpet is adorned with blood drops, some spots darker than others. “You guys said you were with the alarm company?” she asks.

“That’s right,” Dean clarifies.

“Well, no offense, but your alarm’s about as useful as boobs on a man,” she quipped, and I have to bite my bottom lip hard not to burst out in unprofessional laughter. “Well, that’s why we’re here. To see what went wrong and stop it from happening again,” Dean responds, somehow keeping it together.

“Now, ma’am, you found the body,” Sam asks, jumping right into it. “Yeah,” the lady responds, nodding. “Right after it happened?” he follows up.

“No. Few days later. Meredith’s work called—she hadn’t shown up. I knocked on the door. That’s when I noticed the smell.”

“Was there any sign of a break-in or forced entry?” I ask.

“No, windows were locked, front door was bolted. Chain was on the door, we had to cut it just to get in,” she answers.

“And the alarm was still on?” Dean asked, the scene coming together.

“Like I said, bang-up job your company’s doin’,” she remarks. It was no wonder the cops were stumped, those details practically suggest the killer walked through the walls. There was no other way to enter and leave without going through the front door or the untouched windows. “Mmhmm,” Dean hums, “You see any overturned furniture, broken glass, signs of struggle?”

She shakes her head, “Everything was in perfect condition….except Meredith.”

“And what condition was Meredith in?” Sam asks carefully, moving away from the window he was standing in front of.

“Meredith was all over. In pieces. The guy who killed her must have been some kind of a whack job. But I tell you, if I didn't know any better I’d have said a wild animal did it.”

“Ma’am, do you mind if we take some time? Give this place a once-over?” Sam asks, sharing a look with his brother.

“Oh, well, go right ahead. Knock yourself out.”

****

“So, a killer walks in and out of the apartment—no weapons, no prints, nothin’,” Dean acknowledges, opening his toolbox and pulling out his DIY EMF reader. “I’m tellin’ ya, the minute I found that article, I knew this was our kind of gig,” Sam explains just as the EMF reader beeps frantically. A clear sign.

“I think I agree with you,” Dean mumbles.

I walk around the room studying the blood splatter on the wall. Whatever was here was certainly powerful, a strange feeling creeping over my shoulder. “So, you talked to the cops?” Sam asked from the other side of the room. “Uh, yeah,” Dean smirks, “I spoke to Amy, a, uh, charming, perky, officer of the law.”

I scuff, not surprised, “Yeah? Did you find anything useful out or just what she looked like naked?”

“Well, she’s a Sagittarius,” he starts, his voice dreamy like he was reliving it, “She loves tequila, I mean—wow. Oh, and she’s got this little tattoo—“

“Dean!” Sam and I yell at the same time. God, he was ridiculous. “What?” he responds as if he did nothing wrong, “Yeah. Uh, nothin’ we don’t already know. Except for one thing they’re keepin’ out of the papers.”

“Hm?” Sam questions.

“Meredith’s heart was missing.”

Sam chokes on his breath, “Her heart?”

“You know that makes sense,” I start, “With the blood splatter that is.”

“What do you mean?” Sam asks. I walked over to the side table, a phone on it, “Well she was standing here, maybe listening to voicemails since no one has come forward to say they were on call with her when it happened, you would imagine they would hear a disturbance. Then the thing must have come from behind considering the slightly darker spray of blood there,” I point to the wall in front of me and what landed on the phone. “See it’s a projectile splatter —like a mist, somewhere between medium and high velocity. But there are no arterial spurts which would suggest it being quick and skilled, seemingly grabbing the right thing without hitting an artery.” I halt my explanation, “Are you guys following?”

“Yeah, we’re following, sweetheart,” Dean responds.

“Okay, good. So, came from behind, and was able to literally just bam, grabbing the heart and then pulling back out the same way. Which is the minimal blood behind her other than the pooling of blood when she went down. There’s hardly a blood trail or drops, nothing to suggest moving to other sides of the room after the kill. Well, except that…” I point to a blood pattern on the smooth white carpet nearby, “That’s not any blood splatter pattern, at least not a naturally occurring one. Those are methodical, otherwise it doesn’t make sense.”

The drops were in a weird shape or form, it would be hard to explain to anyone who wasn’t there.

Dean makes his way over, crouching before it. He studies it for a beat before saying, “See if you can find any masking tape around.” Sam immediately gets to it, checking the cabinets in the kitchen first. “So, what do you think did it to her?” Sam asks from the other room.

“I don’t know about this,” he gestures to the blood in front of him, “But, the landlady said it looked like an animal attack, maybe it was—werewolf?”

“Can’t be a werewolf, the lunar cycle doesn’t match up,” I respond. “Plus, if it was a creature, it would’ve left some kind of trace. It’s probably a spirit,” Sam adds, coming back into the room with a roll of black tape.

We stand aside as Dean connects the small pools of blood, a pattern evident to him. When he finishes and steps aside the tape reveals an almost ‘Z’ like shape with a horizontal oval in the center, cutting the letter off before it continues again. “Ever see that symbol before?” Sam asks. The symbol wasn’t exactly familiar in itself but close enough to another thing to make a small connection. “Never,” Dean answers.

“Me neither,” Sam agreed.

I rub my eyes, exhausted from summoning books all night. I know the symbol has something to do with summoning a specific being, whatever that being is I don’t know.

I sit across Sam in the noisy bar we just walked into, his Dad's journal in his hands. Dean said he was here somewhere. I move to rubbing my temples, a headache engraving itself. While teleporting objects is far easier than a person I was also getting my books from home—aka around 1,120 miles away. Maine to Chicago, trying to go through my family's old journals and spell books in the hope it had the symbol and an explanation somewhere. So far there was nothing.

The chair next to me scraps back, and someone takes a seat. I don’t have to lift my head from my hands to know who it is, the presence too familiar not to recognize. “I talked to the bartender,” Dean says.

“Did you get anything?” Sam asks, looking up from newspaper clippings he must have pulled out at some point, “Besides her number?”

“Dude. I’m professional. I’m offended that you would think that,” Dean defends with the utmost serious face. Sam and I both give him a knowing look, he would never pass up an opportunity like that. He breaks, a goofy smile on his lips as he pulls out a napkin from the inside of his jacket, holding it up, pen-marked digits written on it, “Alright, yeah,” he chuckles, looking at the napkin proudly. I roll my eyes, he really is ridiculous. And of course, I just had to be madly in love with a guy who’s interested in every other girl.

“You mind doin’ a little bit of thinking with your upstairs brain, Dean?” Sam lectures and it’s my turn to laugh. I hit his arm, “Oh man, he got you bad.”

Dean scuffs, “Look, there’s nothing to find out. I mean, Meredith worked here, she waited tables, everyone here was her friend. Everyone said she was normal. She didn’t do or say anything weird before she died, so…what about that symbol, you find anything?”

“Nope, nothing. It wasn’t in Dad’s journal or any of the usual books,” Sam answers, putting down the newspaper clippings he’d been holding. “And there’s nothing, so far, in any spell books or journals,” I add as I pull out a brown strapped book from my bag, “If I have to read another book entirely in Latin I will commit violent atrocities.” I’d read at least ten journals in Latin back to back, it was rather nice to see the things my ancestors got into but after a while, it was very tiring.

“We just have to dig a little deeper, I guess,” Sam replied thoughtfully.

“Well, there was a first victim, right? Before Meredith?” Dean asks. His brother nods, “Right. Yeah,” he moves the newspaper clippings around until he finds the right one, “His name was, uh…his name was Ben Swardstrom.” He hands the clipping to Dean as he continues, “Last month he was found mutilated in his townhouse. Same deal, the door was locked, the alarm was on.”

“Is there any connection between the two of them?” Dean pushes, grazing over the newspaper. “Not that I can tell—I mean, not yet, at least. Ben was a banker, and Meredith was a waitress. They never met, never knew anyone in common—they were practically from different worlds.”

“So, to recap, the only successful intel we’ve scored so far is the bartender's phone number,” Dean smirks. I sigh, it sounds more disappointed and tired than anything, “Dude, really?”

“Oh, come on, it’s true,” he defends with a smirk. I scuff, a retort dying on my tongue as Sam stands suddenly, his eyes locked somewhere behind his brother. “Sam?” his brother asks as he begins to walk away. Like nosy teenagers, Dean and I turn in our seats.

Sam stops at a table, his back to us and blocking whomever he’s trying to talk to. He puts his hand on their shoulder. It’s apparent the two know each other, especially when their arms are wrapped around him in a hug. Bare arms wrap around him, hands too feminine to not belong to a woman. I throw Dean a questioning look, maybe it was a family friend? But he looks confused and even skeptical as he stands and walks over. I quickly gather my book, their Dad’s journal, and any of the other papers lying around and shove them in my bag before following after the older Winchester.

The girl was quite attractive, with short blonde hair and dark eyes. A pretty smile plastered on her face and a cute frilly lilac shirt. “Oh, I did. I came, I saw, I conquered. Oh, and I met what’s-his-name, something Michael Murray at a bar,” she answers whatever question Sam had asked. “Who?” Sam asks, an equally big smile on his face. The girl brushes it off, “Oh, it doesn’t matter. Anyway, the whole scene got old, so I’m living here for a while.”

Suddenly, Dean clears his throat loudly, practically begging to be introduced into the conversation. I elbow him and ignore the look he gives me as I mouth ‘Let them speak.’ It was awkward enough just standing near them, off to the side as they caught up, and his attention-grabbing scheme wasn’t helping. He shakes his head at me, eyes wide and hands raised like he’s asking me why. I give him a pointed look, the reasoning should be obvious. “You’re from Chicago?” Sam asks.

“No, Massachusetts—Andover,” she clarifies. Her smile widens, “Gosh, Sam, what are the odds we’d run into each other?”

“Yeah, I know, I thought I’d never see you again,” Sam responded. “Well, I’m glad you were wrong,” she smiles. Dean clears his throat again, somehow louder, I shake my head with a sigh, he was not gonna give up. “Dude, cover your mouth,” the girl snaps and I have to stop my lips from curling into a smile. “Yeah, um, I’m sorry, Meg,” Sam starts, seemingly remembering to introduce the two creeps listening in on a conversation they should be allowed to be private, “This is my friend Y/N.”

I smile, extending a hand out of courtesy, “It’s nice to meet you, Meg.” Her hands are cold against mine, something like recognition passes in her eyes as she responds with the usual saying. Something deep inside my gut curls as I take her in, but I ignore it for now as we break from the shake. “And this is, uh…this is my brother, Dean.” This time her face lights up in surprise, eyes widening and brows shooting up, “This is Dean?” she asks. The man in question smiles with his usual charm. “Yeah,” Sam confirms.

“So, you’ve heard of me?” Dean asks, just a hint of pride on his tongue. Meg looks him up and down in one quick motion, her lips curling in disdain, “Oh, yeah. I’ve heard of you. Nice, the way you treat your brother like luggage.”

My lips part in shock, taken aback, I immediately look between both boys for their reaction. Sam’s eyes are wide, lips parted like she wasn’t supposed to say that, and Dean looks confused, eyebrows furrowed, “Sorry?” he asks.

“Why don’t you let him do what he wants to do?” she continues rapidly, “Stop dragging him over God’s green earth.”

“Meg, it’s all right,” Sam cuts in before more damage can be done. But the damage has already been done. Dean whistles lowly, “Okay, awkward. I’m gonna get a drink now,” he throws Sam a puzzled look before walking away. My eyes follow after him, the last minute felt like a whirlwind, before landing back on the couple in front of me. I eye Meg, what she did was so not cool on so many levels. “I…um,” I point towards the bar, after Dean, with a tightlipped smile, “I’m gonna…” I spin halfway on my heels, walking to the bar.

I take a seat next to Dean on one of the bar stools, a beer already clenched in his hand. The condensation drips down the brown bottle, dripping on the counter as he lifts the rim to his lips and takes a hefty sip. I want to say something–something comforting and helpful, but I know he won’t want to hear it. I could feel the frustration roll off of him in waves, but most importantly that hurt look in his green eyes. I lean into him until our upper arms touch for a moment before pulling away, a silent way of saying I was here with him if he wanted to talk about it or not. Either way, he isn't alone.

****

I push through the bar door before it can slam on me. Dean was walking quickly after his brother, his arm thrown out back at the building, “Who the hell was she?”

“I don’t really know,” Sam responds honestly, “I only met her once. Meeting up with her again? I don’t know, man, it’s weird.”

“And what was she saying? I treat you like luggage? What, were you bitchin’ about me to some chick?” Dean argues.

“Look, I’m sorry, Dean. It was when we had that huge fight when I was in that bus stop in Indiana. But that’s not important, just listen—” Sam explains, his voice calm and steady, before getting cut off by his brother, “Well, is there any truth to what she’s saying? I mean, am I keeping you against your will, Sam?”

He stops his brother, “No, of course not. Now, would you listen?”

“What?” Dean gives in, the word harsh as it passes his lips. “I think there’s somethin’ strange going on here,” Sam explains as we stop in front of the Impala.

“Yeah, tell me about it. She wasn’t even that into me,” Dean scuffs. I sigh for the umpteenth time today, “Seriously? Dean? That’s what you got out of that whole interaction?”

“I mean like our kind of strange. Like, maybe even a lead,” Sam clarifies before his brother can respond with some other stupid comment. “Why do you say that?” Dean questions.

“I met Meg weeks ago, literally on the side of the road. And now, I run into her in some random Chicago bar? I mean, the same bar where a waitress was slaughtered by something supernatural? You don’t think that’s a little weird?” Sam points out. I nod, “No, yeah, that’s weird. I can't even imagine what the statistical percentage would be, 'cause that’s, like, really specific.”

“I don’t know, random coincidence. It happens,” Dean answers, shrugging. “That is some coincidence then,” I respond, not understanding how he couldn’t see or feel how weird it all is. “Sure, it happens, but not to us. Look,” Sam breathes, “I could be wrong, I’m just sayin’ that there’s something about this girl that I can’t quite put my finger on.”

Dean smirks, “Well, I bet you’d like to. I mean, maybe she’s not a suspect, maybe you’ve got a thing for her, huh?” Sam rolls his eyes and laughs, not exactly the most convincing response. “Maybe you’re thinkin’ a little too much with your upstairs brain, huh?” Dean continued, pointing to his head with a grin.

“Ew, why’d you have to say it like that,” I complain. He opens his mouth to respond with something when Sam cuts in, “Both of you do me a favor. Check and see if there’s really a Meg Masters from Andover, Massachusetts, see if you can dig anything up on that symbol on Meredith’s floor,” Sam orders, his expression going back to being serious. “What are you gonna do?” Dean asks

“I’m gonna watch Meg,” he responds. Dean laughs, “Yeah, you are.”

“That was a really weird way to put it,” I add. He sighs, annoyed, “You know what I meant, I just wanna see what’s what. Better safe than sorry.”

“All right, you little pervert,” Dean comments, and Sam looks to me for help. I shake my head, “That wasn’t any better.”

His shoulders drop, “Dude.”

Dean laughs, throwing an arm around my shoulder, “We’re goin’, we’re goin.’”

I sit across from Dean at the given table of their motel room, a leg beneath me. Sam’s laptop is opened up in front of him and I have a creepy old book. The pages are crisp and browned, the cover a deep red with animal skulls and sigils engraved into it. It’s not the first creepy old book I happen to own from being in the family and it certainly won’t be the last. Luckily, it was mostly for show, the symbols there to keep out those who aren’t blood related—-my extended family really knew how to be private. Yet, this book held the answers.

Dean’s phone rings, breaking the comfortable silence we had been sitting in for the last thirty or so minutes, maybe more. He flicks his phone open, pressing a few buttons before placing it in between us. “Let me guess. You’re lurkin’ outside that poor girl’s apartment, aren’t you?” Dean greets.

“No,” Sam responds. Dean and I share a pointed look, it wasn’t like that was exactly what he told us he was going to do. “Yes,” he clarifies. “You’ve got a funny way of showin’ your affection,” Dean jokes.

“Did you find anything on her or what?” Sam asks, going straight to business mode.

“Sorry, man, she checks out. There is a Meg Masters in the Andover phonebook. I even pulled up her high school photo,” Dean informs, the confirmation hanging in the air for a moment before he continues, “Now, look, why don’t you go knock on her door, and, uh, invite her to a poetry reading, or whatever it is you do, huh?”

“Maybe don’t knock on her door though ‘cause then she’s gonna ask how you knew she lived there,” I correct, “But you can text or call and ask!”

“That’s a good point, do that instead,” Dean adds.

“What about the symbol? Any luck?” Sam asks, ignoring our suggestions.

“Yeah, Y/N had luck with that one,” Dean starts, looking at me to continue. “Right, yes. Okay, so, it’s Zoroastrian, believed to be dated about two thousand years before Christ. The symbol we saw is a sigil for a Daeva,” I inform.

“What’s a Daeva?” Sam asks.

“They’re Zoroastrian demons, really mean, aggressive things. And if that’s not enough, Daeva translates to ‘demon of darkness,’” I explain.

“Kind of like, uh, demonic pit bulls,” Dean adds.

“Eh,” I shake my head, “pit bulls are cute and really aren’t mean.”

“You think everything’s cute, and demonic pit bulls would be aggressive,” Dean counters with a pointed look. “Alright, fine that’s true, I guess they would be,” I give in, ignoring the first part of his comment. “Anyways,” Sam cuts in, “How’d you figure that out?”

“I went through more books,” I shrug, “And don’t worry I will not be committing violent atrocities because I have tea!” I hold up the to-go cup with a smile even though Sam can’t see. “Oh! wait, speaking of Latin,” I start, putting the cup down and going back to being serious, “Daevas have to be summoned, conjured. Someone’s controlling it and it isn’t an easy thing to do, you don’t exactly tame them. It’s more like temporarily guiding their wrath, the second you slip up or whatever they’ll kill you with no hesitation.”

“These suckers tend to bite the hand that feeds them,” Dean clarifies, “And, uh, the arms, and torsos.”

“So, what do they look like?” Sam asks.

“Um, according to my great, great, great, great I don’t know how many greats Aunt you can’t actually see them, only their shadow,” I inform, moving my leg from beneath me to sit properly. “Good for lurking, not so great for us,” I add.

“That’s great,” Sam sighs.

“We can figure it out here. Now, why don’t you go give that girl a private strip-o-gram?” Dean responds, giving his brother an easy way out to have…fun.

“Bite me,” Sam retorts, and I can almost hear his bitchface.

“No, bite her. Don’t leave teeth marks, though—Sam? Are you—?” he picks up his phone, confused, before hanging up himself. I give him a look, “Dude.”

“What?”

“So, hot little Meg is summoning the Daeva?” Dean responds after Sam spent a hot minute reviewing everything he witnessed. I take in the information, there was a lot of it. “Looks like she was using that black altar to control the thing,” Sam adds, still standing like he has too much energy to do anything else.

“So, Sammy’s got a thing for the bad girl,” Dean laughs, taking the time to point that out rather than the problem at hand. Sam rolls his eyes, irritation written all over his face. “And what’s the deal with that bowl again?” Dean asks.

“He said she was using it to scry. Now anyone can learn to scry you don’t have to be a witch even if that's what it’s commonly associated with. And you can use just about anything, usually mirrors or crystals– just anything reflective,” I inform, “I haven’t heard of someone using blood before, well, not unless you count seers or high priests back in the Medieval and Renaissance period, but that was small amounts of blood on a mirror and you said it was a bowl, right?”

“Yeah, she was talking into it. She was communicating with someone,” he answers. I wet my lips, thinking over everything I know, things I had to teach myself from countless books and journals. “With who? With the Daeva?” Dean asks.

“No, you said those things were savages. No, this was someone different. Someone who’s giving her orders. Someone who’s comin’ to that warehouse,” Sam answers.

“Scrying is usually used to locate someone or something–”

“Wait,” Sam cuts me off, “Why didn’t you try that with our Dad?”

“She did, it didn’t work,” Dean answers, sticking up for me. I nod, “It was the first thing I tried, your father didn’t—doesn’t want to be found. Although I know what he looks like it’s easier to use a personal item, which isn’t something available.”

“His journal,” Sam spits out, and for a moment I almost think he might be desperate to find his Dad. “It’s not that simple. It needs to be a personal item, not something that's been passed about. It’s been in your and Dean’s possession, it’s not personal even if it’s technically his journal,” I explain.

Dean moves back to the table we had been sitting at more than an hour ago, flipping through the files he had gotten. “And now back to the scrying,” I continue, “It’s mediums that do the summoning and communications with crystal balls because of the quartz acting as a divination tool. To use blood in a bowl?” I sigh, “I don’t know…It doesn’t really make sense unless she was using something else.”

“Holy crap,” Dean says suddenly. My eyes turn to him, Sam turning halfway around to view his brother, “What?” he asks.

“What I was gonna tell you earlier—I pulled a favor with my,” he clears his throat, eyes turning to the floor as he says, “...friend, Amy, over at the police department.” I ignore the drop of my heart, it isn’t the time and it isn’t like this is the first time. “The complete records of the two victims—we missed something the first time.”

“What?” Sam asks again, moving over to look at the records. “The first victim, the old man—he spent his whole life in Chicago, but he wasn’t born here. Look where he was born,” Dean directs. Silence envelops the room for hardly half a beat before Sam reads aloud the information, “Lawrence, Kansas.”

“Mmhmm,” Dean hums, picking up the next file, “Meredith, second victim—turns out she was adopted. And guess where she’s from.” The atmosphere seems to change, something heavy settling over us, weighing on our shoulders. “Holy crap,” Sam breathes, settling in the seat across from his brother.

“Yeah.”

“I mean, it is where the demon killed Mom. That’s where everything started,” Sam acknowledges, “So, you think Meg’s tied up with the demon?”

“I think it’s a definite possibility,” Dean responds. And there’s something about this moment that feels too final—a bad feeling. “But I don't understand. What’s the significance of Lawrence? And how do these Daaeva things fit in?” Sam points out, and I feel sick for a reason I cannot explain. “Beats me,” Dean answers.

My hands brace the edge of the bed on either side of my legs, a heavy feeling in my gut, “You are,” I breathe. I feel their eyes on me but it’s like I can’t or shouldn’t lift my eyes from the bland carpet. “It’s like this entire thing was a long line of dominos and it’s hitting now…this,” I force my eyes up to look at them, “this isn’t good.”

“You gotta give us more than that, sweetheart,” Dean pushes, their faces somewhere between nervous and taken aback. But the worlds were hard to form, it made sense in my head and I could feel it, this sick horrible feeling, “It just feels too connected, everything. Why your Dad went AWOL, why you got Sam, and why he’s sticking around, the connection around Meg, Sam’s forming abilities…this just doesn’t feel good.”

“You think it’s a trap?” Sam asks. I shrug, I don’t know what I mean other than I just have a horrible feeling, “Maybe.”

“Unless you got a better idea I say we trash that black altar, grab Meg, and have ourselves a friendly little interrogation,” Dean suggests.

“No, we can’t. We shouldn’t tip her off. We’ve gotta stake out that warehouse. We’ve gotta see who, or what, is showin’ up to meet her,” Sam counters, “And it’ll give us the upper hand if it is a trap.”

Dean seems to null it over before nodding, “Trap or not, I’ll tell you one thing. I don’t think we should do this alone.”

****

Nerves course through my veins, the bad feeling still there, and no matter how much I tried to reassure myself, it wouldn’t go away. I try to make myself look busy by looking through my spell book, while Dean calls his Dad, “We think we’ve got a serious lead on the thing that killed Mom. So, uh, this warehouse— it’s 1435 West Erie. Dad, if you get this, get to Chicago as soon as you can.” He hangs up, putting the phone in his pocket, and that twist of worry deep in his irises is enough to know he did not get an answer. The door opens slowly, a duffle bag leading the way in before Sam’s body follows in with more bags, “Voicemail?” he asks immediately. I put my book back in my bag, getting up to take one of the bags from Sam and carrying it over to one of the beds. “Yeah,” Dean answers before gesturing to the bags, “Jesus, what’d you get?”

Sam chuckles, “I ransacked that trunk. Holy water, every weapon that I could think of, exorcism rituals from about a half dozen religions. I’m not sure what to expect, so I guess we should just expect everything.”

“Well, you certainly are prepared,” I remark. All of us falling into the silence of getting ready for a hunt, preparing the guns–loading each one carefully. “Big night,” Dean says, breaking the silence.

“Yeah. ‘You nervous?” Sam asks.

“No. Why, are you?” Dean throws back.

“No. No way,” Sam answers. I look up from the weapon in my hand and eye the two of them, “In the hypothetical situation in which you were nervous, it would be okay to be, natural even.” I’m careful with how to frame the words, any other way and they would insist they weren’t, even if it was clear with how the stiff air moves around us. They don’t say anything further, letting silence envelop us once more for a beat before Sam breaks it this time, “God, could you imagine we actually found that damn thing? That demon?” The palpable hope in his voice makes my heart twist, it didn’t feel like this would be the end even if that would be the more convenient solution. But I don’t want to be the one to break his hope with being realistic. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, all right?” Dean replies.

“I know. I’m just sayin’, what if we did? What if this whole thing was over tonight? Man, I’d sleep for a month,” he entertains the idea, “‘Go back to school—be a person again.”

“You wanna go back to school?” Dean asks.

“Yeah, once we’re done huntin’ the thing,” he answers. I admire his want for normalcy, the push for it. I wish it was that easy, though for him I suppose it is. “Huh,” Dean hums and his distaste for that answer is beyond clear. It was the making of a continued argument. “Why, is there somethin’ wrong with that?” Sam retorts.

“No. No, it’s, uh, great. Good for you,” Dean answers, not doing a great job of being convincing.

“I mean, what are you gonna do when it’s all over?” Sam asks, and I despise myself for not having an answer. “It’s never gonna be over. There’s gonna be others. There’s always gonna be somethin’ to hunt,” Dean argues.

“But there’s got to be somethin’! Come on, Y/N, I know you have dreams,” Sam reasons, roping me into a conversation that requires a lot more self-reflection than I want to deal with at the moment. I shrug with one shoulder, but my heart beats in that slow painful way when you know what you want but can’t get, when you yearn more than you are allowed to, “Normalcy isn’t really in my books….it’s not in my blood.” I bite on my bottom lip, containing feelings that could be opened for another night. “But you have them, don’t you?” Sam pushes. I peer up from the weapon in my hands, it feels heavier all of a sudden, “Um…yeah, I do have dreams…we all do,” my eyes flicker to Dean then down at loading the gun in my hands. There was a handful of things I wanted but wants often stay as what they are….wants. “Dean, there’s got to be somethin’ that you want for yourself—”

“Yeah, I don’t want you to leave the second this thing’s over, Sam,” he stressed, moving to a dresser that’s across the room. “Dude, what’s your problem?” Sam pushes. But Dean’s silent and I can only imagine what’s going through his mind. He turns back, “Why do you think I drag you everywhere? Huh? I mean, why do you think I came and got you at Stanford in the first place?”

This is the kind of argument I shouldn’t be in the room for, something that should be private but breaks out anyway. “‘Cause Dad was in trouble. ‘Cause you wanted to find the thing that killed Mom,” he answers like it's obvious.

“Yes, that, but it’s more than that, man,” Dean presses, turning back to the dresser and then once more towards his brother, “You and me and Dad—I mean, I want us…I want us to be together again. I want us to be a family again.” Anguish was clear in his green eyes, his voice dripping with vulnerability, it wouldn’t be much longer till he was claming up again, putting on his hard man persona. I wish he would realize that while they were a family it wasn’t a good dynamic. Sam had every reason to want out, it was just Dean who was stuck in the construct his father had built. But that’s a difficult realization, it doesn’t matter how much others point out, though maybe I shouldn’t be talking. “Dean, we are a family. I’d do anything for you. But things will never be the way they were before.”

Dean looks like his heart was ripped from his chest, though that would hurt less, “Could be,” he says sadly, a last-ditch effort at reasoning. “I don’t want them to be. I’m not gonna live this life forever. Dean, when this is all over, you’re gonna have to let me go my own way.”

Hands gripping cold metal. Up, up, up. I never thought I’d climb up an elevator shaft, but there are firsts for everything. Finally, my feet hit the landing and I silently squeeze through the space of the elevator gate following right behind Dean. Meg’s voice seemed to echo in the silent dark, her tongue twisting with the ancient language. It sounded like something close to Latin, but not quite.

We moved crouched down, strategic steps taken to make as little noise as possible, our guns drawn and aimed at her back. Creeping in the dark. We hide behind some crates, convenient. The sound of her voice stops, the candlelight from her altar dancing against the walls. “Guys,” she says suddenly. She knows we’re here. I feel the boys tense on either side of me, they shouldn’t be so surprised. Being right all the time is a curse at this point. “Hiding’s a little bit childish, don’t you think?” she drawls.

“Well, that didn’t work out like I planned,” Dean announces. Her feet shuffle, the room so quiet you can hear the very small miscellaneous gravel crunching with her turn. She must be staring at us, the crates might as well have not been there with the way I can feel her intense gaze through the wood. “Why don’t you come out?” she asks, her voice so smooth and so teasing. We give each other a look, a shared understanding before reluctantly coming out from behind the crates, guns still trained on her. “Sam, I have to say, this puts a real crimp in our relationship,” she purrs. Her yellow leather jacket standing out in the dark. Why’d she have to pull it off so well? “Yeah, tell me about it,” he retorts.

“So, where’s your little Daeva friend?” Dean asks, motioning with a nod of his chin.

“Around,” she muses, “You know, that shotgun’s not gonna do much good.”

“Oh, don’t worry, sweetheart, the shotgun’s not for the demon,” Dean smirks, and there has to be something wrong with me to think that was hot in a situation like this. “So, who is it, Meg? Who’s coming? Who are you waiting for?” Sam spits, question after question firing quickly.

“You,” she smirks, eyes feigning innocence. Something creeps in the shadows, my gun is launched from my hands. The sound of skin breaking echoes in the room, my skin burns. I land on my back hard, the cold concrete floor ricocheting in my spine, blood drips down my abdomen in the shape of a claw mark.

****

My eyes flicker open, something tight around me. “Well, look who’s up early,” Meg teases, leaning against the altar’s table, looking at her nails bored. I move my eyes across the room, Sam and Dean tied up on separate polls close to each other. A claw-like scratch mark ran across Sam’s cheek and another on the side of his neck. Dean’s temple bleeds, blood dripping down the side of his face, another on his shoulder. Both of them knocked out.

I was placed towards the middle of the room, closer to the altar than them, a stupid decision. Rough ropes bind me, just like them, another stupid decision. A decision that makes it clear she doesn’t know what I am. I peer down at my abdomen, my shirt ripped with a claw mark, my skin already pinching itself back together. “Early bird gets the worm,” I joke. She walks slowly over to me, eyes trained down to meet mine. It’d be so easy to get out of the ropes and have my hands on her, just hardly half a second. Was it worth it to wait? Would she spill her grand plan? They always do. “Do you always keep your guests tied up?” I ask, wanting to get her talking. She stops by my feet, and slowly, ever so slowly begins to kneel, my eyes following her movement down. “Only the ones that trespass,” she breathes, her eyes gleaming with something dangerously playful.

“You know, I have to say your whole plan was quite genius,” I start, leading her into confession, “Even the victims being from Lawrence, ‘nice touch, good way to draw us in.”

She smirks, “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“Hey, Sam? Don’t take this the wrong way, but your girlfriend…” Dean’s voice breaks through the room, “is a bitch.”

“You killed those two people for nothin’” Sam spits, ignoring his brother's comment. Her head lolls towards his voice, the smirk on her lips deepening. She turns her full attention to him, both boys now awake. She twists her body towards them, her hands now on the ground, on all fours she slowly crawls towards them, her back perfectly arched, “Baby, I’ve killed a lot more for a lot less,” she drawls.

“You trapped us. Good for you. It’s Miller time,” Dean smiles, “But why don’t you kill us already?”

“Not very quick on the uptake, are we?” she draws closer to him, leaning in, “This trap isn’t for you.”

“Dad,” Sam murmured, the piece falling into place, “It’s a trap for Dad.”

“Can we start listening to anything I say?!” I exclaim.

“Oh, sweetheart, you’re dumber than you look. ‘Cause even if Dad was in town, which he is not, he wouldn’t walk into something like this. He’s too good,” Dean points out, ignoring my wonderful point.

“He is pretty good. I’ll give you that,” she moves over him, straddling his legs and sitting right in his lap, “But you see, he has one weakness.”

“What’s that?” he asks.

“You,” she breathes, “He lets his guard down around his boys, lets his emotions cloud his judgment. I happen to know he is in town. And he’ll come and try to save you. And then the Daevas will kill everybody…nice and slow and messy.”

“Why you doin’ this, Meg?” Sam cuts in, “What kind of deal you got worked out here, huh? And with who?”

“I’m doing this for the same reasons you do what you do…loyalty. Love. Like the love you had for Mommy—and Jess.”

“Go to hell,” Sam spits.

“Baby, I’m already there,” she smiles, voice like velvet. She slides over to him, “Come on, Sam. There’s no need to be nasty,” she leans closer, her voice dropping, “I think we both know how you really feel about me. You know, I saw you watching me changing in my apartment. Turned you on, didn’t it?” She seizes something in her hand that I cannot see from here until it’s sliding across the floor. His pocket knife. But this doesn’t seem to interrupt her, like she expected it.

“Get a room, you two,” Dean groans.

“I didn’t mind. I liked that you were watching me. Come on, Sammy. You and I can still have a little dirty fun,” wet noises fill the room as she places kiss after kiss on his neck. “You wanna have fun? Go ahead then. I’m a little tied up right now,” he remarks. She continues to kiss down his neck until the sound of metal against metal breaks through the noise of her kissing. She gets up and walks behind Dean’s post, taking his pocket knife and throwing it into the corner somewhere. She rounds the post once more, standing as she looks down at them, “You two never know when to give up, do you?” She spins towards me, “Wanna give up yours now?”

I smirk, slipping from the ropes easily, “Oh baby, I don’t need a knife.” I get up, the shadows rushing forward, I hold up a fist, halting their movements, like rabid dogs on a tight leash. Her face contorts in confusion, eyes widening, “Now you and I can have fun,” I tease, “Unless, of course, you don’t like getting your hands dirty.”

“Trust me, I have no problem getting dirty,” she answers, eyes moving slowly down my frame. The real trouble is deciding how to handle her, there is so much I could do without breaking a sweat, or I can stick to basic fighting—keep it fair. She rolls her shoulders back, raising her fists in a basic fighting stance. But, maybe it’d be good to send a message. Maybe it would be fine to play dirty just this once……

A purple-tinted fog seeps into the room, tendrils curling along the floor like ghostly fingers. A quiet breeze snakes through the room, an eerie whisper being carried with it. It shoots through the room, darkening, shadows stretching and deepening, the candles extinguishing with a soft hush. The confines of the room dissolve, leaving only the two of us in a void of darkness, smoke swirling around our ankles like serpents. Her hands drop to her side, eyes darting around the room, “What is this?” she snaps. Hushed whispers fill the air, a cacophony of chanting, the words overlapping and blending into a horrific murmur. I appear behind her, my hands gliding over her eyes like curtains blocking out the dim light, “Open your eyes,” I whisper. The fog thickens, rising like a living entity, coiling around us, higher and higher, until I too am swallowed by its depths and fall away.

Suddenly, the room flickers with a harsh, red light, pulsating in erratic bursts, casting shadows that dance wildly. She covers her head with her hands, folding into herself as she stumbles forward, trying to escape the terror. In the brief flashes of red, she catches glimpses of the Daevas— for her eyes to see only. Her scream pierces the air, raw and primal, as the true sight of the Daevas sear into her mind.

The smoke and visions vanish as a sharp crash reverberates through the room, the altar table crashing to the ground as she falls into it. Freed from their binds, the Daevas surge forward, dark forms slipping through the shadows. Scratch after scratch appears on her skin, the unseen monsters marking her flesh. She screams again, a desperate, guttural sound, as she is dragged by her ankles, her nails clawing futilely at the ground. With a final, terrifying force, she is hurled through the window, the glass exploding outward, shards glittering like deadly stars as she falls to her demise with a sickening thud. “Fuck!” I curse, running to the broken window, her body sprawled on the concrete, blood-forming beneath her. Oh god. With a distracted flick of my wrist, the ropes that held the boys come undone– the only tangible, helpful thing I could do. I messed up. I messed up. “I didn’t mean to,” I mumble, stepping away from the window, “I was just trying to show h–I didn’t me–”

“What did you show her?” Sam asks, moving past me to peer out the window. I tried to find an ounce of an accusatory tone, but there was nothing to find. “The Daevas, I wanted her to be as scared as those two people were when they died…But! I didn’t mean to kill her, I didn’t mean to, I swear.” A familiar hand touches my shoulder, but I move from his hold, I shouldn’t be touched. “It’s okay, sweetheart, we know you wouldn’t have done it on purpose,” he tries to comfort but I am not worthy of it. I want to tell him he’s wrong. I can do something like that. I just did it now, she’s dead and it’s my fault. I did too much. I shouldn’t have scared her like that, it was cruel and unnecessary and she might still be alive if I didn’t. He’s wrong. Dean’s wrong and Sam should accuse me, and they should be scared. I’m not who they think I am.

“So, I guess the Daevas didn’t like being bossed around,” Sam acknowledges as if nothing had happened, as if I didn’t just kill her. “Yeah, I guess not,” Dean agrees, moving over to stand by his brother at the window, viewing my crime, “Hey, Sam?”

“Hm?” he hums in response.

“Next time you wanna get laid, find a girl that’s not so buckets-o’-crazy, huh?” Dean smiles, walking away. I hear him picking up their discarded items, the guns, the duffle, Sam joining him. I hear the click of the heavy metal door, we could use the emergency stairs, no need to be sneaking around, “You coming?” Dean asks. I run my hands down my face, glad my back is to him, I won’t be able to repent for this sin. Dad would know how I could repent, or, at least make sense of it. “Uh, yeah, yeah,” I nod.

“Why didn’t you just leave that stuff in the car?” Dean asks as we move down the hall, forced to help carry heavy bags of weapons and other stuff. “I said it before, and I’ll say it again—better safe than sorry,” Sam explains. Dean leaves it at that as he unlocks the door, pushing it open for us. It felt wrong to talk so casually after the death of someone else, someone I killed. It didn’t matter whether I meant to or not because either way she was dead and it was all my fault. I didn’t deserve casual talk. I know things happen on hunts, you see a lot of things and do a lot of things and I've had my fair share of both, and I know you have to move on—holding on is what gets you killed. But it’s easier said than done, I can’t just forget I killed someone. My thoughts halt as do our steps at the sight of a man standing by the window, the dark cloaking him.

“Hey!” Dean shouts, his brother flicking on the lights quickly. The man turns, the new light illuminating his familiar features. “Dad?” Dean breathes the question, shock evident in the way the exhale passes his lips. Meg was right, he was in town. “Hey, boys,” he greets and like the spell of shock broke Dean and him walk towards each other. Their arms wrap around each other in a big bear hug. I may not like John Winchester, not one bit, but I’m glad he can have this moment with his Dad, where for just a moment everything’s alright.

They pull away from each other and his eyes finally land on his youngest son, “Hi, Sam.” They do not move to hug, not even a muscle, “Hey, Dad,” he answers softly. There’s an understanding that seems to pass through them with just that gaze, maybe they didn’t need to hug or maybe it was because John just wouldn’t. His eyes move to me next and he gives me a quick nod, an acknowledgement of my existence and I give one right back. “Dad, it was a trap. I didn’t know, I’m sorry,” Dean rushes to say.

“It’s all right. I thought it might’ve been,” he answers, a man who was always two steps ahead and then some. “Were you there?” Dean asks.

“Yeah, I got there just in time to see the girl take the swan dive,” the memory of the glass shattering and her screams getting further away flashes in my mind, “She was the bad guy, right?”

“Yes, sir,” both boys answer at the same time, their tones the same- just like they were taught. “Good. Well, it doesn’t surprise me. It’s tried to stop me before,” he informs.

“The demon has?” Sam asks.

“It knows I’m close. It knows I’m gonna kill it. Not just excoriate it or send it back to hell—actually kill it,” he explains, words sharp on his tongue. “How?” Dean pushes.

John smiles, “I’m workin’ on that.”

“Let us come with you. We’ll help,” Sam insists, and I don’t miss the warning glare his brother throws him. “No, Sam. Not yet. Just try to understand. This demon is a scary son of a bitch. I don’t want you caught in a crossfire. I don’t want you hurt,” John reasons.

“Dad, you don’t have to worry about us,” he counters.

“Of course I do. I’m your father,” John pauses, and if I were a bolder person I’d list all the times just in the last couple of months where he clearly hadn’t been worried enough to show up when his own sons were calling for help— when one of his sons was on his deathbed, “Listen, Sammy, last time we were together, we had one hell of a fight.”

“Yes, sir,” Sam replies.

“It’s good to see you again. It’s been a long time,” he said warmly.

“Too long,” Sam answers, and finally they embrace, arms tight around each other. When they pull away the family shares a teary eyed look, a relief to be back together.

Suddenly, John is thrown sideways, crashing into a set of cabinets as Sam is thrown back against the door. “Frick!” I curse, one hand in a fist as I hold them back once more, this time they fight harder against my hold, tugging at it. “Dean! Get them out of here,” I order. He rushes to his Dad, throwing his arm around his shoulder as Sam shuffles his way up the wall to hold himself. The Daevas tug on my hold again, like rabid dogs pulling on their leash with bared teeth. “What about you?!” Dean asks from somewhere behind me.

“I’ll be right behind you,” I answer. This seems to satisfy him enough for him to continue to leave, it’s only when I’m sure they’re gone that I light up the room with a blinding bright light. Pure light beams from my free hand, growing until it reaches every inch of the room, like the sun rising on a meadow. I squint my eyes against the bright light, not wanting to risk closing them despite the pain of the light. Their tugs immediately stop, some feeling like they were trying to pull away. I keep it up for a count of 10, there isn’t a science to this other then shadows can’t exist without darkness. I don’t know if there is a ‘right amount of time.’ But, with the light so blinding and the tugging completely gone I decide they must be gone for good.

I shut it all down, no more emitting light and no hold, before rushing out the door and down the nearest stairs. My shoes hit the asphalt hard as I head to the Impala, hidden in an alley behind the motel. Immediately I see the group of boys and hurry my steps. “They’re gone,” I inform, my chest rising and falling quickly, “They shouldn’t be coming back, that should be it.”

“All right, come on. In case it isn’t over, we should go,” Sam urges, throwing the duffle into the backseat.

“Wait, wait, wait! Sam, wait,” Dean insisted, “Dad, you can’t come with us.”

“What? What are you talkin’ about?” Sam exclaims.

“You boys…you’re beat to hell,” John points out, eyes taking in each visible wound.

“We’ll be all right,” Dean convinces.

“I’ll take care of them,” I add, it wouldn’t be the first time I healed them and it would never be the last. “You shouldn’t even be here,” John bites. I give a tight lipped smile, the best I can do to not go completely off, “Yeah, well look who saved your life.” He opens his mouth to say some other harsh thing when Sam cuts in, arguing with his brother, “Dean, we should stick together. We’ll go after those demons—“

“Sam! Listen to me!” Dean yells, “We almost got Dad killed in there. Don’t you understand? They’re not gonna stop. They’re gonna try again. They’re gonna use us to get to him. I mean, Meg was right. Dad’s vulnerable when he’s with us. He—he’s stronger without us around.”

Sam shakes his head, not accepting this reality, “Dad, no” he puts a hand on his father shoulder as if willing him to say Dean was wrong, “After everything—-after all the time we spent lookin’ for you—please. I gotta be a part of this fight.”

“Sammy, this fight is just starting. And we are all gonna have a part to play. For now, you’ve got to trust me, son.” But Sam shakes his head. “Okay, you’ve gotta let me go,” John continues. The alleyway falls silent, the air thick with emotion that would not spill. Finally, Sam pats his fathers shoulder once, then let’s go. John and Dean share a look, then he walks to his truck, parked on the street just outside the alley. “Be careful, boys,” he says before getting into the old truck and driving away. Who knows when we’ll see John Winchester next.

[randomsebs]

yeah it’s definitely strange to see the cult-like behavior towards who he “dates.” suddenly posting her, adding her to their bio, complimenting her looks and projects, defending her as if she’s now a member of their family. these women do not know you! even seb would find it a bit offputting.

it’s extreme to constantly parasocially insist “he’s so happy” “she’s amazing” “they’re going to get married” when plenty of people (in real relationships) can choose the wrong person and present themselves smiling to the world, while not actually thriving — aka like half the couples on social media and the serial dater friends we all worry about.

what i find particularly annoying is using any hate against her as ammunition against the belief of PR existing. it’s really strange how they refuse to acknowledge that every celeb does PR, and that we’re only seeing what he wants us to see. in the year 2024 you’d think they’d open their eyes to how everything isn’t fairytales and honesty. he’s an actor who acts even when the camera isn’t rolling, are we so shocked? they don’t want to believe that he would ever need that, but only a decade ago he almost went bankrupt and his career has survived two recessions. he barely got his recent low budget movies made! he’ll do almost whatever it takes to stay in this industry, they underestimate that. tbh we’re on the better side of it here bc we can actually appreciate that he made this sacrifice in the first place. to ignore how he isn’t himself around her or when he looks sad is just irresponsible as a fan, if you treated him as a human you’d see the reality and have spare some sympathy instead of blind applause.

I know. People assume I just don’t like her because she’s with Sebastian? I am a big fan of sebs do not get me wrong, but I have also done MY research.

People just ignore the things she’s done for NO reason. How come they didn’t ignore ale? Didn’t ignore Ellie? And not to mention they hated Margo for NO reason too. They hated his good exes, they hated his bad exes. I do not support ale or Ellie because of the things they’ve done too, don’t get me wrong, but to ignore Annabelle’s problematic issues it’s disgusting and wrong. Not to mention - sending me death threats, doxxing threats (only threats, no actual leaks but I’m still weary), body shaming me, insulting me, calling me “ugly” when you don’t even know what I look like, etc… all because I do not like her?

They also claim: “You’re just mad he won’t fuck you”. NO SHIT HE WONT?! Im in a HEALTHY, HAPPY relationship, I have my OWN life behind my comfort celebrity? Yeah, hear that? He’s my COMFORT celebrity. I like him for being himself.

When he’s with Annabelle, he isn’t. People post “happy” pictures of them to spite others with a different opinion than they have. 1. In Rome it was a very clear pap walk, when she found out he was spotted she had to release more photos of them in Rome just so people wouldn’t forget about her. When Seb is spotted in LA, it’s not because he “lives” there for her (I’m sure he has a place in LA and NYC for work and stuff) but to move there for her? I don’t think so. They’re not close enough to even live with each other, which is very clear. When he is seen with her dogs, it’s baiting. Anytime they’re “accidentally papped” is not accidental, it’s so she can get recognition from HIM and his fan base.

This worshipping shit needs to stop, honestly. If another celebrity did this (stalking, lying about what she supports for a good view, posting perverted stuff in the past, posting random plus-sized people and making fun of them in the caption, and making fun of a plus-sized man of a different color), they’d get bashed (as they should), or if any of his exes did this, the whole fandom would raid their comments. Why are we being hypocritical here? You’d all find any dirt on any of his exes except NOW this “girlfriend” is “humble”… no she isn’t. If she was humble she wouldn’t have to try so hard to get recognized from her own boyfriend’s fame instead. If she was humble, don’t you think she wouldn’t waste all her money on expensive designer, lots of fillers, tons of surgeries, Botox, etc?? I’m not saying she can’t use her money like that, but to be called humble when she literally baits her co-worker/PR boyfriend whenever she gets the chance? I mean she also stalks her “boyfriend”’s fans just to make sure she’s also receiving attention. Isn’t that creepy? No. Everyone takes it as: “Annabelle supports us, she knows we exist!” Yeah, she knows you’re buying into the PR so much, she knows that you’re all connecting her to every little movement or outfit Seb wears, she KNOWS she’s getting attention from his fandom. It’s way too out of hand.

Wonder why Seb is different? All the hate and Annabelle. Annabelle isn’t the type of person I’d hang around, speaking that I’m friends with someone like her in the first place, it’s very toxic and it’s the polar opposite from Seb. Haven’t you ever noticed that she changes her entire personality with every single relationship she gets into?? What’s next? It’s saddening. She looked more in love with Chris pine then Seb, but she was well aware that she wasn’t receiving a good amount of attention from Pine’s fans, she knew about Seb way before they even gotten together. She followed him before they began this contract too, when they “started dating” she literally unfollowed him. She follows some of his fan accounts, stalks them, what not, just so she can also be making sure she’s the center of attention as always. She knew if Seb got bigger than how he was when she aimed to him, that she’d be receiving the best amount of attention.

I’m not being “biased” because I like Seb? It’s just because I do not like her, that’s my opinion and it’s because I do not support what she does in general.

It’s clear they have no chemistry whatsoever, but fans ignore it. I honestly believe someone HAS to be hired at this point, there’s no way that they’ll all of a sudden switch up like this when there’s plenty of proof on her own profile if you scroll down.

The thing is, she never apologized for anything she done. She repeats it again because she knows no one will care about it, she does not care what type of attention she gets. She doesn’t care if she gets hate, love, she just likes to be talked about.

This situation is concerning. It’s almost as if they want him to see this drama, like: “Seb look at what we’re doing!! Defending your PR girlfriend”. I don’t think he’ll come back to posting because of what you guys are doing, you know that right? If you observed Seb with her, you’d see crystal clear that they’re both annoyed with each other or that he just looks miserable/uncomfortable.

[justkending]

Finding Memories. Chapter 7.

Series Summary: Waking up with little to no memory of her past, and being saved by a group of individuals who call themselves heroes, sends a long time captive for a whirlwind trying to find some form of grounding in this world she quickly learns runs on chaos. But she’s not the only one trying to figure out her forgotten backstory. Bucky Barnes, along with the other Avengers, can’t help but sense that there is a lot more to the whole situation than a diagnosis of amnesia. Her background slowly starts to come forward in pieces of her past and hidden information discovered. Who is she? And why was she in the room they were meant to destroy?

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader 

Word Count: 4500+

TW: Torture, cussing, and blood. 

A/N: I’m hoping to get chapter 8 out in time, so bare with me! Thank you for reading:) 

Chapter 7:

“Y/N?” Nat asked, slowing her steps closer as she took in her new look. 

“Hey,” Y/N said with a quick smile while walking toward the red head. 

They were now face to face and Y/N was semi-avoiding eye contact as she could tell Nat was studying her. 

“I have a favor to ask you,” Y/N said softly as she tried to move the attention away from her. 

“If it has anything to do with helping you with your new look, I think you’ve got that down,” she smirked, crossing her arms. “I’ve been through enough identity crises to know a thing or two about drastic hair changes.”

That lightened the mood like Nat had hoped to and Y/N smirked slightly at the comment. 

“Thank you. I,” she paused, debating if she should confide in her or leave out her true reasoning like she was used to. But Nat had become a very understanding and sympathetic female friend that Y/N bonded with quickly, and the second guessing thought process was becoming easier to ignore with her around. 

“You don’t have to talk about it right now if you’re not ready,” she answered for her. “If you want to talk about it later we can… Or not. Whatever you want.”

Y/N was thankful for the deflection because she knew her own reasoning, but didn’t know if it sounded like stupid reasoning. The second guessing thing was something she was going to need to become better at ignoring herself.

“I appreciate that,” Y/N nodded. 

“Of course. Now… What kind of favor are we talking about?” Nat asked.

Instead of answering, Y/N looked back at the boxing ring debating if this was actually a good idea. 

Nat followed her eyeline and caught onto her thinking.

“Well, this could go a lot of different ways,” she thought out loud. 

Y/N turned back to her, getting her explanation out.

“Last night,” she started. “Last night was a really… ugly night,” she closed her eyes at the thought of seeing herself in the bathroom mirror right as the attack happened. 

“It was a really fucked up night, Y/N. You can call it what it is,” Nat encouraged, feeling for the other woman and everything she’s gone through. 

Y/N couldn’t help but feel comfortable with her casualty and agreed with her statement. 

“It was a fucked up night,” she sighed, and Nat let out one big laugh and a huge smile lit up her face. “What?” Y/N couldn’t help but smile a touch at the giggle spy in front of her. 

“You said it,” Nat grinned. “I’m proud of you.” Y/N tilted her head in confusion at the sudden pride Nat had for her. Nat caught on and chuckled before walking and putting her jacket on the chair next to the ring. “You’re allowed to be angry,” she explained. “No matter how much people tell you to look past it and move on, you're allowed to be angry that it happened to you. And sis,” she walked turned back to Y/N with a smirk. “You went through hell and back. I will be proud anytime you speak your true feelings on something.”

It was a sweet moment. One Y/N didn’t expect in this conversation at all, but a sweet and healing moment nevertheless. 

“Sorry, I keep redirecting the conversation,” Nat apologized, walking back to the ring and looking around. “What business are you trying to meet up for, in here?”

Y/N weighed her head back and forth softly while trying to find a way to convince Nat to help out.

“I need help trying to find a memory,” Y/N said in an exhausted and worn-out tone. As if she was becoming frustrated and sick of this process of stepping on eggshells in order to figure out who she was.

“What?” Nat stepped closer.

“I think last night when I was ambushed, my muscle memory kicked in,” she summarized. “The woman came up behind me and the other immediately pulled my legs together and almost had me pinned. It’s nothing that I imagined myself doing, but it was like my body took control, and-” she stopped, realizing this was the most she had talked about it yet. 

“What happened, Y/N?” Nat asked, intently listening. 

Y/N closed her eyes and her arms came closer into her body. Just enough for a spy who played off of people's behavior to notice the shrinking back into her shell.

“I remember blacking out, but this morning I could have sworn I saw something very… Unlike me?” She questioned it because she wasn’t truly sure of the person she was before all this.

“Piece it back to me.” Nat turned and sat on a chair and patted the seat next to her. 

She went on to explain that it was spotty, but there were points where she saw defensive maneuvers done in ways she didn’t know she could move. Then everything at one point had more vibrant colors, but she wasn’t sure if that was due to the adrenaline or something else since it faded quickly. 

She talked about how right before she knocked the woman out, that blackout was one of the hardest parts to piece together. One second the woman was looking at her in pain from the twist she had her arm in, and the in next, she was unconsciously molded into the wall. 

“And you don’t remember anything that happened in that split second?” Nat asked for confirmation. She shook her head no with pursed lips as her answer. “Interesting… So that leads us back to here,” she motioned to the boxing ring behind them while in the plush chairs they had settled into. 

“Yes,” Y/N nodded, looking back to the giant square too. “I know this is going to sound strange and maybe a step too far forward, but I think if I were to practice some of the movements that came to me, I could maybe… Piece things together?” 

She had asked the last thing in a question as she wasn’t sure if her plan was even worth trying after saying it outloud. 

“No, it makes sense,” Nat brushed off the insecurity she attached to it. “But the real question is do you want to take the risk of triggering something worse? Because there are going to be possible consequences if we do this. It’s nowhere close to the route Bucky wants you to follow.” 

The last part was said as if she meant to say that in her head, but she didn’t flinch when Y/N gave her a weird look. 

“What do you mean?” she tilted her head.

“Bucky knows a thing or two about everything you’ve been through. Has he told you about any of it?” Nat asked. 

“Um, not really…” 

Y/N thought back and realized she only knew small personal details about Bucky in her time here. And they weren’t things about his past really, but instead just quirks and likes and dislikes. 

For instance, when he was lecturing Peter with Steve one night while he did his homework in the living room, he would scratch his beard when he had to really think back on a detail to keep the story accurate. It was his tic she had noticed he commonly did to concentrate harder. 

Another time, when they had movie night, Bucky made sure to get one specific blanket everytime. He would kindly share it with her though as he prided in showing people how soft it was. He was right too, if you had ever felt the softness of the softest bunny on earth, it couldn’t compare to this blanket. 

He rolled his eyes dramatically everytime Sam made sure everyone remembered he was the one who bought that for Bucky as a gift for Secret Santa. Everyone said the last thing the tough soldier would want was a fluffy blanket. But they were all wrong and Bucky wished he had never shown his excitement at the thoughtful gift before learning who gave it to him. 

Or the time he had joined one of Wanda and her walks one day, and while on the trail, he would stop to point out certain trees and characteristics of them. He had mentioned that his time in the army gave him limited things to find hobbies in, so he took up reading about things that could help him survive in the heavily armed forest and woods they were stationed in. 

He made notes about a group of bushes that would bloom a berry in the spring that was similar to blueberries in taste. He had mentioned things about the dandelions and how they were actually very beneficial in helping with health issues. If cooked and concentrated right, it could give all kinds of healing properties. 

She had also learned on that hike he was a fan of astronomy. Another hobby picked up during the war and his extended periods of time outside under the night sky.

And there were tons of other little details that she had learned as well. 

He liked his coffee black with 2 sugar packets. He always made sure to open doors for every woman he could. He would call Sam Skuttle, which always made Sam annoyed, but he did it solely for that reason. He always had a jolly rancher or wart heads on hand, mainly for Y/N, but also because he knew what it was like to be socially uncomfortable or anxious, and the sour and sweet options helped give your brain another focus. Taste. 

He liked just sitting in common spaces while doing work of his own because he liked hearing the background conversations and being around people he trusted. He hated running with Steve because he would always say, “One more lap,” and it would never be just one more. He always smiled on one side of his mouth when they watch mystery movies and he somehow solves it before everyone else. Majority of the time he doesn’t say anything, but at the end when everyone discusses their theory, his happen to always be right and his points make it seem obvious when they never are. 

All of these traits and interests brought a different kind of comfort to her as it helped her humanize the man who saved her and also continuously proved that good and genuine people exist out there. 

“No, he hasn’t told me much besides how old he is, Steve and his friendship and when it started, and he told me he has enhancements,” she listed the things that would be of importance now. 

“Nothing about his arm?” Nat was semi-surprised.

“I’ve never asked about it, so no. Nothing,” she shrugged. 

“Huh,” Natasha hummed with a small smirk. “That’s… Interesting.” 

Y/N was blushing a bit, but mainly just because Nat was giving her a cheeky look that she didn’t know what to read it as. 

“I just assumed he didn’t want to talk about it since he never brought it up. I’m sure there’s a story to it, but I would want him to tell it to me in his own time,” she added. “He’s been patient with me while trying to learn all the things that’s happened to me, the least I can do is return the favor.”

Nat again couldn’t hold back the grin that was taking over her face now. This girl was a special and knowledgeable one and it showed effortlessly. 

“I’m sure he appreciates that,” Nat nodded, looking down to hide her growing smile, but then quickly putting her serious side to work. “Now, you wanted to give a punch or two a try? Let’s see what we are working with.” She stood up motioning to the ring. “Ready?”

“Surprisingly,” she hesitated, taking a deep breath and feeling a small wave of confidence hit her after Nat confirmed this was a good idea after all. “I think I am.”

_______________

“Have you seen Y/N?” Bucky asked as he walked past Sam who was at the kitchen island with his cup of coffee in one hand and his phone in the other. 

“Not this morning, no,” Sam answered, never looking up. “Why?”

“I went by her room to check and see if she was still sleeping and I didn’t hear anything inside.”

“Did you knock?” 

“Yeah, no answer,” he replied with a breath as he grabbed his own mug. “I would have peaked my head in, but I didn’t hear a heartbeat on the other side. Her room was empty.” He paused trying to think of the possibilities. “I usually wake up before her and wait until she comes around in the morning to double check on her.”

“I know,” Sam chuckled. “You look like a dog waiting for their owner to wake up so you can hang out with them.” Bucky sent him a glare. “Don’t act like I’m wrong,” he chuckled, bringing his mug to his lips and going back to his phone. 

“Hey, guys,” Steve walked in. 

The two mumbled an early morning hello back.

“You haven’t seen Y/N by chance, have you?” Bucky asked him while he grabbed an apple from the fridge.

“No. Why?” Steve furrowed his eyebrows as he answered.

“I haven’t seen her this morning,” Bucky answered and their shared look silently communicated that something felt off. 

“Is she on a walk with Wanda? Maybe they got around earlier than usual,” Sam interrupted, still unbothered knowing she couldn’t and wouldn’t have gone far. 

“I just passed Wanda and she was headed to the gym,” Steve answered. 

“I’m going to go check her room one more time and do a walk around. See if anyone has seen her,” Bucky decided, leaving his empty mug by the coffee machine he never used. 

“Want an extra set of eyes?” Steve asked, ready to pack up his breakfast and go. 

“No, I’ll be back. Just text me if you hear from her,” Bucky began walking out. 

___________________________

After an uneventful night of trying to unblock memories by using muscle memory, Natasha and Y/N called it eventually and went to bed in hopes of getting a few hours of shut eye before waking up early with the rest. 

After deciding to reenact the maneuvers Y/N was able to piece together, frustration started to weigh heavy on her shoulders when nothing triggered a memory. 

Nat offered multiple times to put a pause on it if she needed rest, and that they could come the next night to try again if she wanted to still. 

Y/N had shook her head in determination and refocused. Each time saying, “One more try.”

By the time it was close to 2 in the morning, Nat knew it was time they both went to bed. They were mentally and physically exhausted trying to pull moves and think back to what could have started this in the beginning, and each time came up empty handed. 

The redhead thought she was one of the more hardheaded individuals of the group, but she had found a worthy opponent in Y/N. 

She was somehow able to convince her to get a few hours of rest and come back at 5:30am before most came to the gym. 

It was a Saturday which meant the capacity of the compound was slower than normal, and she knew the boys gym schedule for the most part. They wouldn’t need to worry about interruptions or concerned Bucky’s that morning. 

But just for extra measures, they went to a private conditioning room and stayed out of sight in case someone came along. They were the only two that knew about this idea and Y/N wanted to keep it that way. 

“What am I doing wrong?” Y/N grunted in frustration after doing another punch to the bag in front of her and nothing happening. 

It was interesting seeing this side of her as she had been so timid and quiet most of her stay here. Nat knew there was more to her than just that quickly after meeting her as she had wit. But she had still never seen her angry. Only scared or nervous when it came to the more intense emotions. 

“Maybe it wasn’t the move that caused the trigger to come back. Maybe it was the people,” Nat offered a new viewpoint. 

“It was the move,” Y/N shook her head in disagreement. Her eyes were on the floor and her arms were crossed in front of her after. The tap wrapping her knuckles were peeling and changing colors at the beating they had too against the punching bag. “I just don’t know how to reenact it better,” she sighed heavily. 

Nat gave her some space to think while she grabbed them waters and walked over to hand her one. 

Then, as a light bulb popped in her head, Y/N looked up sharply.

“That’s it,” she said softly, looking at the water bottle extended in front of her. 

“What’s it?” Nat asked confusedly as she looked at the plastic cylinder as if it had the answer. 

“Nat, I have another idea, but I’m not sure how you’ll feel about it,” Y/N took the water slowly as she gaged Nat’s face. 

“That sounds promising,” she smirked, nodding on for her to continue.

“I think I need you to actually fight me…”

Nat didn’t answer right away, but instead just stared at her blankly for 20 seconds before saying, “Come again?” 

“I think the only way we are going to get over this obstacle we’re in is if we are actually fighting and I have to truly defend myself. All this so far is just a slowed down version of it all. It’s not going to give me the adrenaline and survival instincts I need to get past this bump.”

Nat understood her reasoning after thinking about it, but at the same time couldn’t bring herself to give in to the request.

“I don’t think you understand how bad of an idea this could be,” Nat crossed her arms. 

“You and I both know you aren’t going to hurt me,” Y/N was quick to wave off.

“That would be the true intentions, but you are asking me to swing at you.”

“It's the next best option,” Y/N shrugged. “That or we keep doing this fake fighting thing and hope that one day it’ll spark something.”

“I like that idea better.”

“We don’t have much time for that kind of plan,” Y/N looked at her deeply. “Please.”

She considered it, but immediately thought of the repercussions they could hit if it ended up not working like they hoped. 

“Bucky, would kill me if I left a single scratch on you,” Nat shook her head. “I would feel awful-”

“If the person getting hurt is the one who asked for it, you shouldn’t feel guilty about it. Especially if I know what could come out of it,” Y/N bribed, picking at her wrapping. “Plus, I heal fast. By the time I saw anyone, no one would ever know you and I went up against each other.”

Again Nat was skeptical about the whole thing. A piece of her knew what it was like to try and get information from something that hurt you more than a scratch or two would. But Y/N was so fragile in her mind and the thought of pulling any kind of Black Widow move on her made her think about how unfair a fight like that could be. Especially if they didn’t know for sure if Y/N would react how they hoped. 

“I promise to tap out if I can’t handle it,” Y/N pushed on.

“It’s not you that I’m worried about being able to handle it,” Nat smirked. “I’m not sure I can handle being the one causing the damage.”

“Then do something simple,” Y/N offered, moving to the center of the mat. “Something that if I do have any sort of preservation muscle memory, I’ll react.”

Nat slowly walked to the mat with her, but didn’t make any moves. 

“If I do this, and it doesn't work, promise you won’t make me try again,” Nat bargained. “I don’t want to beat you up and you keep asking for more cause you want to try one more time.”

“I won’t make you do anything you aren’t completely comfortable with,” Y/N agreed. 

Nat hummed and thought about certain moves that she knew would just have to be quick reflexes to counter more than defend against. They could start off small. 

“Ok, but I’m not throwing a punch at you yet,” Nat pointed to her. 

“Works for me,” Y/N smiled. 

Nat and her got positioned on the training mat and Y/N bounced on her feet some, anticipating Nat’s next move. 

“Ok, I want the first move that you do to be strictly your gut reaction,” Nat instructed and Y/N nodded. 

Giving a few seconds of suspense to catch her off guard, Nat quickly took a step forward invading her space. Instantly, Y/N backed up. 

Nat surveyed her feet and body language and was surprised to see her in a staggered yet balanced stance. Not necessarily in a fight stance just yet, but at least she had decent counter poses. 

“Ok, nice start,” Nat smiled. 

Y/N seemed to be proud of that reaction and smiled more as she continued to bounce on her toes ready for the next move. 

“Maybe we should put on gloves. That way I can soften the blow a little-” Nat debated with herself, but Y/N shook her head. 

“Just swing,” she instigated, and she looked to have shocked herself a little at the snap. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound-”

“Don’t worry about it,” Nat chuckled. “I’m glad to know you have a little spitfire in there.”

Y/N smiled shyly at the comment and they went back to it. Nat practiced a few more moves mainly just to study her stance and reflex of it all. She had shown promising reactions to each push Nat hit her with. 

“You’re walking on eggshells still,” Y/N noted as they circled each other. “You still haven't done any type of actual fight move on me.”

“I’m warming you up,” Nat played off. “I just needed to double check that you have promising reflexes.”

Y/N looked at her with a bitch face. Again that spitfire Nat mentioned earlier was becoming more apparent with each dragged out next move. 

But little did Y/N know she was building up her frustration to help in her defense. Nat had always said she was a better fighter and shot when she was mad. The rush of angry adrenaline was a different type of fuel. 

Just when she could see Y/N on the brink of giving up from frustration, that’s when Natasha striked. And instantly Y/N maneuvered in a way her opponent recognized. 

“Whoa,” Nat smirked, repositioning herself after being deflected in a smooth manner. “That was new.”

Y/N noticed it as well, but she wasn’t sure how she did it still. 

“Try it again,” she pushed on, straightening her stance as she focused. 

Nat shrugged and continued to size her up and play offense, and each time Y/N had moved herself out of harm's way. Sometimes it would be slightly clumsy as she would over think her next step and not let the natural instincts kick in fully. 

But that was part of the progress. You can still get rusty over time, especially if you weren’t actively practicing in ways like this. 

But for the most part, she was holding her own. When Natasha reminded her to follow her gut instead of her head, her next move would improve and hold strong. 

Then at one point, Nat came at a new angle and it was as if the realization of what they were doing sunk in.

It was no longer Nat that was throwing the next punch, but instead some flash of a man coming at her. 

Instead of fighting back, her learned behavior of shielding herself from the hit, instead of redirecting it, came flooding back as her survival instincts.

She threw an arm up in her face as she turned away, ready to take the hit this time, but instead a strong force propelled Natasha across the floor. 

When Y/N felt a vibration bounce around her, she opened her eyes in shock to see herself still standing and Natasha about 10 feet back from where she stood. 

Natasha groaned some, but sat back up with her hands propping her upper half up and her legs spread out in front of her. 

Instead of saying anything they just stared at the other in shock. Neither moving from their spot as they were trying to wrap their head around what just happened. 

Then Nat broke the silence with a single word. 

“Fuck.”

“Shit,” Y/N followed after a second. 

“Kurva,” another voice sounded from behind them. 

They both turned their heads quickly and saw the second redhead of the group at the door with her eyes in wide shock.

If you would like to be tagged in this series, please send an ask here.Thank you:)

Finding Memories Taglist: (some would not let me tag. so if you see your name but didn’t get the notification, double check if your blog allows tags:)

@tinkerbelle67 @a-beaverhausen​ @caruhleener​ @fanfictionjunkie1112​ @sjsmith56​ @nancymcl​ @kaygilles​ @laisbeltrans​ @matchat3a​

Marvel Tags:

@thejourneyneverendsx​ @death-unbecomes-you​ @mythos-writes​  @srrymydood​ @xa-dia​ @redhairedfeistynerd​ @morganclaire4​ @connie326​ @captain-asguard​ @mollygetssherlockcoffee​ @teenagedreams-bucky​ @shower-me-with-roses​ @livstilinski​ @basicallylool​ @starryeyeseunbyul​

My Lovelies forever:

@natura1phenomenon​ @lauravicente​ @kakakatey​ @traceyaudette​ @notyourtypicalrose​ @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce​ @sandlee44​ @thorne93​ @thefaithfulwriter1​ @essie1876​ @greyeyedsmile14​ @capsiclehan​  @xostephanie​ @averyrogers83​ @awesomenursingstudent​ @gh0stgurl​ @cs-please​​ @jjlevin​​ @rainbowkisses31​​ @deannotmoose​​ @their-bibliophile​​ @kitkatd7​​ @willowbleedsonpaper​​ @mariaenchanted​​ @snffbeebee​​ @couldabeenamermaid​​ @rebekahdawkins​​ @alyispunk​​ @billyseye @hallecarey1​​

Bucky Barnes Tags:

@chloe-skywalker​​ @charmedbysarge​​ @jbarness​​ @bellamy-barnes​​ @katiaw2​​ @aikeia​​ @stopjustlovethemcu​​ @enchantedbarnes​

[neimansautism]

Whiplash iisn't about bdsm, it's about glorifying violent assault and sexual harassment directed at kids. A real man doesn't justify hitting you in front of others. A real man doesn't tell you he'll stop once you do better. Those are the actions of a spineless, stupid fucking coward with an ugly fucking heart. Fuck Whiplash.

Long response for you.

1. Terence Fletcher is a bad person. I never tried to insinuate that he was ‘a real man’ or not a coward??

2. ….but he definitely did not commit assault against “kids” lol. Andrew Neiman is 19 in canon and it’s also mentioned that, at 19, he is the YOUNGEST member of Fletchers class. So you don’t worry about that.

3. Neiman and Fletcher HAVE A TOXIC RELATIONSHIP. It is not healthy and people should not be aspiring their real life relationships towards it? If you were anywhere near the Hannibal NBC fandom, I really think their situation is closest to that. It’s not something to aspire to… but it’s two characters with a toxic relationship with themselves which bled into and heightened their negative and obsessive relationship after.

4. I relate to the ship in a BDSM way because of the power exchange AND while editing original canon in my mind. I am in the BDSM community and relate to aspects of their relationship with masochism and sadism and I think it’s an interesting dynamic.

5. You can interpret canon in many different ways. I personally see Whiplash as two characters who had both felt shunned and othered by the world and their obsessions with music— they are similar enough to where they feed into each other’s obsessions and make each other worse. That’s how I interpret the plot and I, personally, like to take a side of BDSM to creatively work with the power dynamics that I see fit.

Thanks for leaving this post to express how you feel, but we simply just have different opinions on interpretation of canon and how it’s applicable to other aspects of life. No hate to you for having strong feelings about a film that was designed as an abusive and toxic thriller movie.

[lamedemoniaque]

Weed update:

Weed is great but the after affects and the waves of dread and despair hit me so hard in the morning. Waking up is supposed to be a rebirth; a new day is upon us and I choose to be how I was in the past (pessimistic, susceptible to negativity, letting things snowball)

I can’t find solutions to the weird problems I have. Root causes for things help to cope but the gravity of my potential impact on this world is jarring…it makes me dizzy and unable to dream and I dont know what’s right or wrong. Im damaging my brain day by day but as i’ve come into myself recently, I see that I am in fact, quite reasonably human and reasonable humans drink and smoke and fuck and work out and talk to one another; sometimes passionately but most times it is idle in nature. The root cause being that humans do thèse things because they are human, And that’s the only reason we need. It’s not so simple, nor is it so unbelievably complex but it’s oh so frustrating. The only thing I’ve wanted to understand was others and i’ve made amazing strides towards this goal, but in the end, while it’s not a futile effort, it is rather arbitrary and there’s too many dead ends.

My findings are that people, wherever they lie on social standings, will always go out of their way to express their ideals, beliefs and their artistic visions. There’s no true hiding that can be done, but lets be real: body language experts are such horrid cunts and that whole practice is suspect to say the least. That being said, I get called out a lot for stereotyping people, and they are correct to do so but I’ve noticed that people dont usually tend to break social contracts, even arbitrary ones like marriage, friendships and job obligations but they also don’t go against the social conventions of their communities. I believe that community is essential to human life and capitalism and other shit has really skewed this sonic truth about human life. People in certain groups will act a certain way, but that is not a guarantee because guess what? People are complex! We like the mystery of others, so if I make an assumption about someone based on what I know about their culture and their upbringing, that’s just a lead into learning the actual true things about one. People break stereotypes as much if not more than they follow them and I think it’s fascinating truly.

In other news, my love life has continued to be in shambles but I do hope for a change in that whenever the Gods believe that I deserve what I am worthy of. That being said, dating apps are a disgusting trap for those seemingly desperate enough to play a part in the company’s shitty game (me af) and while I just literally typed that out, I don’t really hate dating apps, I just don’t like the way it’s set up. There’s this disgusting aspect to seeing others show themselves off with no substance and the substance is impossible to find because it’s too fucking hard to bridge the gap between the mutual agreement that we live in the same general area and not getting a feel for someone automatically by meeting them in an “organic” matter, but I still dont think it’s bad. I think the thing that bugs me is almost having to pay for the services because dating and being seen by other’s in your dating pool is really fucking hard! Like extremely hard, even if you’re confident and attractive like I like to believe that I am. I dont want to sound anywhere close to a misogynist, but I’ve noticed that through these dating apps, people seem to pigeonhole themselves into seemingly being one-dimensional and that’s concerning because even the people, ugly in their heart, are filled with endless depth that many do not know of, and while the physical aspect isn’t there, it’s still an odd, new thing that we’re still wrapping our heads around. I’m also very concerned about cis-women because I’m not convinced that they like men, but aspects of “masculinity” that are derived from social expectations but that are inhabited by those who I describe as “men-adjacent” (fruits, transwomen/transmen, dudes who know about hello kitty, dudes with a decent to great skincare routine, etc.) and by that I mean that this notion of the definition of masculinity, some machismo enigma of hard labor and bad takes, is 1. Not sought after and 2. Behind the times, maybe even forgotten, and it’s destroying my brain because what the fuck is the point of Irish Spring, Axe bodyspray, Old Spice and beard oil if that’s not what I would presume their dating pool would be, women, want from them at all? It’s still hitting me and it’s not that im even affected by this in any romantic sense (I’m nonbinary and have a devotion to looking as attractive as possible by almost any means) it’s just baffling…

And i know what the variable is that I’m missing! Conservative “people”! That’s not a bad point to make, but even those fools do exactly what I was alluding too. The gun girl cunt bitch lady has the most twinked up gayed out husband and the other shapiro also has a husband that is so against the conventions that they preach and so with that, I will say that the biggest voice for this arbitrary nonsense are not the ones that practice, but the ones who preach…

I’m just very alone romantically and it’s really making my grit my teeth so fucking bad! It’s not a sex thing! I’ve already had sex I dont even care about these primal, carnal urges I just WANT A FUCKING HUG WITH SOMEONE WHO CARES ABOUT ME!!! I WILL NOT SURRENDER AND GIVE UP ON CIS WOMEN BUT GODDAMN THEY ARE RETARDS!!!

[dustedmagazine]

Haggus — No End in Suffering (Tankcrimes)

Photo by Hambone

Haggus isn’t haggis, the — um — savory treat of Celtic cuisine. But if you have a schema for haggis, you are on your way to understanding the general sensibility of Haggus, the Oakland-based mincecore band. Think lots of minced, awful offal; lots of gross, pitch-shifted vocals; really, just lots and lots of gross stuff, as a general rule. For many, many listeners, this new EP’s title effectively captures the compulsory response to the songs, even though the band’s releases tend toward the very, very short, as is the case here: seven tracks in fewer than thirteen minutes. It helps (if that’s the right word) that bunches of Haggus’s releases are splits, with other mincecore and goregrind acts like Posthumous Regurgitation, Fentanyl Surprise and, inevitably, Agathocles, the band from whence mincecore hath emerged, for good or ill. Mostly ill, judging by the gurgling and gagging sounds that pass for vocals on Haggus’s records and tapes. Nice.

So why double-down on what’s already an instance of double-trouble (Tankcrimes has released No End in Suffering alongside an even less appealing new Haggus EP, called Three Cadavers, Two Corpses, and a Carcass) by listening to the record and then informing the world of its existence? One reason: this reviewer will stick his hand up and be identified as an ally of the long-standing mincecore mission, which consists of creating a stridently leftist, anti-misogynist version of goregrind, a sub-sub-(sub?)genre of metal that is too often plagued by gross-out visions of violence done to women’s bodies. So when Haggus presents us with songs like “Gaggin on Maggots” or “Frothy Purge,” we can listen secure in the knowledge that any slimy, decomposing body parts at stake in the imaginary sights, smells and tastes (what’s in that froth?) can be linked to a formerly bearded, big-gutted dude, likely sporting a Rectal Smegma tee.

Of course, the fact that Haggus’s music shares the same sonic properties (clips from slasher movies, willfully poor production values, monstrously distorted “vocals”) informing the records of a miserably hateful outfit like Gut raises a number of questions. What sorts of pleasures are associated with sounds this degraded? Does such hyperbolic aesthetic perversity necessarily evoke other affective perversities? And when the vocals are so completely deformed, who can tell the difference between a song like Gut’s “Dead Girls Don’t Say No” (sorry — but that’s among the tamer titles in Gut’s extensive discography) and Haggus’s “Putrid Infestation”?

This reviewer’s answer may be too cute by half, but he’ll stick by it: You have to listen (and likely read) past the spectacularly unpleasant surface values to find out what’s what, and who’s who. Culture seems to move very, very quickly — but really, that’s capital and its current investments in circulation as a sort of end in itself. Capital wants those memes to saturate and replicate, because then you’ll have more insipid “content” to scroll. Six seconds here, four seconds there, less than two if you’re not immediately grabbed or pleasured by that dopamine hit. Mincecore songs seem to participate in the same game: super fast, very short, all volume and overly intense affect. But engaging that experience and sussing out its potential political content? That means slowing your roll, reading the associated text, taking more time to consider the songs than the songs themselves occupy.

Maybe you don’t want to linger over a tune like “Atrocity Propaganda.” Fair enough. But it’s not likely that going back to doom-scrolling will make any of us feel any better about the human condition. At least Haggus is committed to its ugliness, and political about its uses.

Jonathan Shaw

[simplisticfaith27]

What Actually Makes Someone A Christian?

The simple answer is Christ.

 Christ takes broken, lost, sinful humans that cry out to Him and covers their sins. He takes hearts of stones and replaces them with new hearts that are forever changed and turned towards Him. This is the doctrine of regeneration.

A lot of the time when I hear people talk about Christians, it seems they don’t understand what makes a person a Christian in the first place. This will all sound rather obvious to any Christian reading this, but it isn’t about following a set of rules and attending church and calling oneself a Christian. People these days love to attach new labels to themselves like it’s nothing- like it’s just another badge you’re wearing and not an irrevocable part of who and what you are. According to the world, if you call yourself something, then you suddenly are that thing. It’s all about how you identify. You have to understand with Christians it quite different. We are, by birth, inherently sinners. It’s not something we can cast off. We struggle with sin everyday. Through Jesus Christ and His sacrifice for that sin, we have the opportunity to become something altogether different.

We can become a completely new spiritual creation. But none of us do any of the actual work. Jesus did the suffering and dying. Through Him, God can redeem fallen human beings.

Now, because of this we should have new desires to love God and love others and do good works. Never to earn grace, but out of the overflow of love that God has given us. When Christians misrepresent the faith with ugly behavior it is not according to the spirit of Christ. However, they are no less Christians. Because God makes people into Christians and He is no less a savior.  He covers our sins, our bad attitudes, our ignorant remarks, or moments of weakness. When we repent, He casts our sins into the deep. Our works- good or bad- have nothing to do with our status before God because Jesus lived the perfect life and Jesus was punished for our wrong doing.

 I honestly can’t say it enough. Do not listen to the world when it comes to Christianity. Before I returned to the faith, I had no idea how warped my understanding of God and the church really was. Some people think it’s on par with a cult. Others think we get a free semi-automatic and a Make America Great Again hat with each conversion.

Before I put my faith in Christ, I was a husk. I was normal and reasonably content, but I was striving and placing my happiness and self worth is such temporary empty things. Knowing Christ is not a label or even something that just makes me happy. It’s life altering.

 “But God, being rich in mercy, because of His great love with which He loved us, even when we were dead in our transgressions, made us alive together with Christ (by grace you have been saved) and raised us up with Him, and seated us with Him in the heavenly places in Christ Jesus,” Ephesians 2: 4-8

[sarkisyanportfolio]

Armenia’s Italian Neighbor

There’s something about Italian culture that brings me back to Armenian culture. Surely, there are slight differences in how open a culture we are; Armenians are more conservative when it comes to the human body, but that’s a result of influences by geographic location and long-lasting domination by Persian, Turkish, and Russian empires versus Italy who was colonized briefly by other non-conservative European countries. We’ve had different experiences of destruction, both from within and without from external foreign governments, but we share more than we don’t.

We cling to the empires that once were… the confident, self-assured, ironically both terse and cantankerous attitudes. These entitled men, under the impression they’re god’s gift to the earth, yet at the same time constantly feel they have to prove themselves. The seething egos unable to stand in line, unable to wait for anything, and constantly battling with one another and themselves. These conflicted men, who both want to subdue women, yet revere women for their resiliency and strength. These men who walk with a snarl taped to their face, attacking anyone who belittles them or gets in their way, who believe they have a societal responsibility to be strong for women, but do not notice they’re robbed of their freedom to be vulnerable, to be human. Authentically all the same.

These men who act and behave as though they couldn’t care less what people think of them, but at the same time care a great deal of the respect they’re shown by every living creature. The ceremonious drinking and eating around a magnificent long table, soon accompanied by accordions and singing and yelling and laughing, and perhaps, if it’s a good enough dinner party, crying and fighting too. We are human beings that exist as simply too much for our earthly physical selves. Men and women alike that can’t be contained and don’t know what to do about it.

The fiery beautiful women, with thick-hair and dark eyes – envious of mans perceived comfort in existing in the world. Men who are never judged on the basis of their looks no matter how ugly or handsome they are, rather on their talents and contributions; as the Armenian saying goes, “txamard@ petq a kapikic miqich sirun lini,” or man should be slightly more attractive than a monkey. You will probably never meet a gender more convinced they were created perfectly in god’s image. Overwhelmingly creative and passionate men and women, with emotion and volatility to yell into the streets which are all empty before 10 am – yet only women will be criticized for indecorum, for madness. Man and woman alike have their creativity stifled by their cultural environments regardless, by that contradiction of wanting to be accepted by our small tribes, and at the same time repelled by wanting to prove that we have more to offer.

The grandmothers with scarves wrapped around their heads and aprons around their waist as their second skin, dressed in black mourning something or someone always; cooking and cleaning up, and then cooking and cleaning up, and then cooking and cleaning up. Their sometimes-lopsided compassion and sensitivity towards their mischievous sons than their modest daughters.

The constant upholding of tradition, with all its values, faults and shortcomings. The wife who stands by her weak unfaithful husband. The daughter who, while younger than her brother, learns to do the household chores her brother doesn’t have to learn. We walk the same gravel, we share the same guitar strings, our grandfathers wore the same short-sleeved white or beige button downs with slacks and loafers. Our men huddle outside the church, while women take communion inside.

We crush the same grapes and then we dance, and then we fight. We defend our own; we stick to our tribe, and that’s all we know. Do with that what you will. We share these same traditional societal roles, the same objectless anger and restlessness, and we project that into the arts. Our humor, valued above all else, chained to the burdens of life. The quick-witted one-liners and proverbs and aphorisms undeniably tied to our constant awareness of history. And, my favorite, the noses. Our only other defining characteristic other than our last names. Yes, the elegant and the misunderstood noses.

[swallowerofdharma]

Replying here so that I have more space to elaborate on this. I completely understand your feelings about the abundance of sex scenes that can be a characteristic of bl manga: people are expecting them, even complaining when the story takes its time to develop a believable world building and a plot, what an outrageous thing to do! When a story becomes popular then a lot of people will start to pay attention and have something to say, but I think there are many different nuanced approaches and people having varying expectations and being invested to different degrees.

From my perspective, Yoneda has an unique sensibility. There is the hot read you can do, as soon as a chapter is out, that will have your immediate reactions and all the good or bad or conflicting emotions that a sex scene can evoke in us. I usually go through a stage of repulsion. You see, I identify a lot with Yashiro. Sex is a place of trauma but not a taboo for me too, so I have my contradictions. My peers, society, they say that sex is a wonderful place full of pleasure and love, but my earliest memories and experience warned me of other ugly, scary and unpleasant things. But in Saezuru there is much more than “sex with feelings”.

The care Yoneda puts into this manga is priceless for me. The subtle expressions, as we were saying, the masterful use of shading to bring out emotions so beautifully. There is a second read you can do, a colder one, when you think about the scenes and the progression. These characters are driving the story more than any genre conventions. These two characters don’t understand each other, they had very different fears and expectations. The manga plays into their sexual attraction but also doesn’t let making love be the solution, as we see how the sex caused more conflict. But also, Yashiro, especially, but Doumeki too, they had to confront themselves with things they were not ready to face. Doumeki to me is more close to a younger reader: he thought by falling in love and giving himself fully to another person he could escape his past and lack of direction after being severely disappointed by life. But Yashiro couldn’t possibly carry both of them towards some sort of happiness. At the start of chapter 27 we see this: Yashiro being re-traumatized and also be the one to console Doumeki, by putting his hand on his cheek and trying to reassure him. And I completely understood that the best thing to do was leaving.

Frankly, I am glad that other readers, especially younger readers are taking this story in a less complicated way and taking it romantically. Missing the deeper details related to a type of trauma I don’t wish for anyone else. This manga is still saying them that yes love can motivate you greatly into facing your own unresolved issues, but you need to work on yourself. And maybe you won’t be on the same page with the other person. You take your time.

In the previous chapters since their reunion and when they had sex in Doumeki’s apartment, Yashiro kept having intrusive thoughts about Doumeki and a woman, an imaginary one first and Izumi after he met her. This is another compelling element that clearly states “here is your sex scene” but also “here is a character confronting all the unsolved issues he carries”. [By the way, understanding what Yashiro is facing here is very interesting and engaging to me].

I don’t think you can say that this is exactly playing out uncritically the idea of romantic love. Gratuitous sex scenes are everywhere in bl manga, even crazy set ups for characters to have sex in the first chapter (or you won’t have enough readers to publish). But Yoneda managed to find the perfect balance for me. How these characters act and think is pretty believable to me. And that she has this sensibility and also those skills in storytelling and building a scene is so special and fortunate to have. Yes, we don’t know how the story will end, but I am trusting this particular author and I don’t really trust people easily lol I only hope she doesn’t grow tired on gets pressured into rushing to the end. But the recognition that Saezuru continues to have should help her stay faithful.

We can get weirdly hang up on genres. Manga for girls, bl manga, they only tell you the intended readers (for commercial purposes) but not if it will be actual romance or how the story will be. As I previously commented, Yoneda to me is more realistic, and with that I mean realism as a genre different from romance. And that’s why the world building and the yakuza plot are very important to the story too. Sorry if I couldn’t keep my answer short but I took the opportunity to praise Yoneda-sensei a little more.

Opened tumblr and my feed is just a series of reblogs of Doumeki and Yashiro making out and Griffith trying to kill himself.

[x3rrorx]

I know you're an adult and can take care of yourself. But, please be careful about how deep you get involved with whatever MG is using J and her friends for. I, and I think everyone who reads your blog and know you on Twitter, do not want to see you suffer the same consequences as j and her friends who were stupid enough to befriend MG who is no doubt sharing personal info about Noah to them on private to keep them interested in her. He knows who j is. He's not stupid. He recognized her from shiprocked and the other tours she followed them on. I mean, how could he not? She's been stalking him all year in person and online. He knows she's the one spreading lies about him. And for now, I don't think he can say anything or take any recourse because she hasn't crossed any boundaries, not really. I think right now he's keeping quiet. I think Noah is the reason Matt stepped back his remarks to her on Twitter and was passive-aggressive instead of confrontational. MG has not kept her identity a secret on Twitter. Her pfp is her face, a face Noah would immediately recognize and it would be naive to believe he hasn't been to Js Twitter page and seen her friends list, or else Matt has, especially if j messaged him privately. Matt and Noah have been best friends for almost a decade. They're brothers. It's impossible that Noah wouldnt know what's going on when Matt says something about someone in the fandom. MG has said multiple times that she's resentful towards Noah for hurting her, and she wants revenge. This is her revenge, and she's not finished. And now she has helpers. I will not even begin to speculate what J and her friends' motivations are for being friends with MG, but sharing inside info is not enough of a reason. Not even if MG does have intimate pictures of Noah she's sharing with them, as the Twitter thread posted earlier seems to suggest. There is something else going on that we are not allowed to see yet, and I fear that when it comes to light, it's going to be ugly, and i have a feeling it's MG manipulating j into doing her dirty work for her. The best revenge for MG would be to ruin Noah's career because that's his entire world, his life's work. J has already gone after Matt. She's narcissistic enough not to care how small she is compared to who they have backing them up. At some point she's going to let slip what MG has been grooming her for during one of her tantrums when she gets caught in yet another lie about Noah. At that point, Noah will start taking legal action against EVERYONE who jeopardizes the band and his reputation. At that point, his management team will step in, and everyone involved, no matter how small their part, will go down with j and MG. This situation is a gross mess. I'm going to suggest, as a friend, stop confronting them. Get the receipts, but keep out of it. Let them screw themselves.

I can appreciate that whole heartedly!

Definitely with that last part, I could see that being the case. That’s a scary thought, but I would also completely understand them needing to do that.

It’s easy in theory to not say any more on it when it comes to them bringing me up along with a thread of lies. I don’t wanna end up looking like Juli to the fandom. That’s why I feel I need to come with recipes and shut down all these lies as quick as possible. I want no one believing the false shit that Juli and her friends or supporters conjured up.

It’s definitely east in theory to not say anything and let them get burnt on their own lies. But knowing people read 1 thing and run with it with no proof… I provide my proof and I call out the lies.

If they stopped it would end. But they don’t wanna stop, so it never ends. It gets worse and worse for everyone and especially the band.

[luminnara]

Omega Depression || Alpha!Kiribaku x Omega!fem!reader

Hi! Can I request an alpha!Kiribaku x omega!fem!reader where she is strong on the outside, but sensitive on the inside. Then, some asshole alpha comes and insults her saying that she isn't worthy of having alphas and other super mean stuff that makes her go to omega depression. After that, she confines and isolates herself in her room, not allowing her alphas to enter. Days pass, she misses school for like a week, and her alphas are tired of waiting, so they bust the door and find their omega deep in omega depression and starving herself, and they're super worried and try to help her get out of it, cause she could die if not. The rest can be little angst with a fluffy happy ending!

Yo I live for alpha kiribaku, not gonna lie

Warnings: angst, mental health stuff, depression, eating disorder/starvation stuff, abo

Requests are open!

You were always happy with your alphas. Bakugou and Kirishima were the loves of your life, you were sure of it. The three of you got along well, and there was nothing you enjoyed more than spending time with your boys. You kept up with them easily, never having trouble when it came to handling Katsuki’s temper or Eijiro’s enthusiasm. They loved protecting you, too, not that you ever really seemed to need it; you were tough as nails, as far as everyone was concerned. 

You weren’t, though, not really. 

“What a useless little omega.”

The words kept repeating in your head, over and over.

“Two alphas? Yeah, right. You don’t even deserve one, not with an uppity attitude like that.”

They kept echoing, no matter what you tried to do. 

“What a stupid bitch. They should just leave your sorry ass. You aren’t worthy of anyone, much less alphas.”

You curled in on yourself. You felt sick to your stomach. How could someone say that about you? How could a shitty alpha go and ruin your mood, and your day, by saying something so awful?

“I am worthy!” You had argued. “And we’re happy together, so just fuck off.”

“Oh yeah? Then why haven’t they claimed you yet?” His lips had pulled over his teeth in a sick grin. “You know they’re just biding their time, waiting for something better to come along. You’re nothing to them.”

The little spat had been earlier that morning. It was rare that you ever went out alone; usually Eijirou or Katsuki or both of them were stuck to you like glue, but this had been one of those instances when you had absolutely insisted you would be fine. After all, you were just running a couple errands. You weren’t even going very far from campus. What’s the worst that could possibly happen?

Well...this, apparently.

You had rejected the advances of an alpha who had been eyeing you for quite some time. He was annoying and his scent always made you recoil, but you would never, not in a million years, have thought that he could hurt you so deeply.

Why were his words even bothering you so much? You knew your boys liked you. They made sure to constantly cover you in their scents, they happily gave up their shirts for you to tuck into your little bed nest, they held your hands and gave you sweet little kisses...

And yet, he was right. They hadn’t claimed you yet. There were no big bite marks on your neck to show the world that you were taken. Why hadn’t it happened yet? You always thought that maybe they were just nervous, and they wanted to wait for the right time. Maybe they wanted to wait until school was over and they were better established as heroes.

Or maybe they were just playing with you, maybe you were nothing more than their favorite toy for the time being. What if they got tired of you? What if they really were planning on kicking you to the curb? Without a bond mark, nobody would even blink if they cast you aside. It would just be a normal break up, nothing for anybody else to even care about or get involved in.

But your heart was already aching at the thought of it.

You huddled up in your nest, ugly sobs wracking your body as you clutched one of Katsuki’s hoodies to your chest. An undershirt of Eijirou’s was nearby, a few plushies that they had given you tucked in amongst the blankets and pillows. The scents of burnt sugar and cinnamon wafted around you, and as comforting as they usually were, they weren’t helping you now. Nothing was.

You heard your phone vibrate, but you didn’t reach for it. You didn’t care. You were too wrapped up in your own thoughts, absolutely trapped in your head now. You were plagued by those same words as they kept repeating, telling you over and over that you were worthless, useless, nothing.

When you finally managed to glance at your phone, you had missed texts from both your alphas. You replied to them with a couple of half hearted “yeah, I’m fine” -s, then finally slithered out of bed to make sure your door was locked. You didn’t want to face them when they came to bother you.

If they came.

You spent the entire day like that. When you were out of tears to cry, you just grew numb. It was the worst you had ever felt, and while some part of you knew, deep down, that you needed your alphas to come help you, you couldn’t stand the idea of them seeing you like this. How had you managed to grow so afraid? You usually told them everything, but now...now you abhorred the thought.

“Oi!” Katsuki’s rough voice came from the other side of your door, his scent wafting in. “Open up!”

You didn’t answer, curling in on yourself even further instead. 

“Omega!” he called angrily. “Stop ignoring me, dammit!”

“Go away!” you managed to squeeze out, your voice sounding weak and strangled. 

He was silent for a moment, his scent changing. It grew more burnt-smelling as his anger mounted, and as it reached your nose, you felt panic and annoyance spiking in your chest. 

“Omega,” he growled, voice low. You heard the doorknob jiggling as he tried to get in, but you had locked the deadbolt, and unless he unleashed his quirk right there in the dorms, there was no way he was entering your room.

“I said go away!” you yelled. 

On the other side of the door, Katsuki was fuming. The beginning sparks of little explosions were popping around his hands, and if Eijirou wasn’t there to hold his arms down at his sides, there was a good chance he would have done some real damage to the hallway. 

“Katsuki, c’mon.” the larger alpha said. “Let’s just leave her alone for a little.”

“Something’s wrong,” Katsuki pulled back as his partner started trying to drag him away. “She stinks.”

“Yeah, she definitely doesn’t smell happy,” Kirishima paused, frowning. “But...we need to give her the space, if she wants it.”

“Fuck that,” his partner spat. 

“Katsuki....” Eijirou sighed. 

Bakugou’s nostrils flared angrily for a moment, red eyes wild as Kirishima grabbed his arm once again. Someone was trying to drag him away from his omega, from his perfect little mate, and if it had been anyone other than Eijirou, he would have done far worse than simply dig his heels into the floor and growl in protest. Kirishima was right, though; if their omega wanted alone time, they couldn’t just barge in without permission. As much as it hurt both boys, as desperate as they were to get to you and make you feel better, they weren’t total animals. They respected you, and prided themselves on being two big, capable alphas who listened to their omega. 

They returned to their own rooms, expecting to at least hear from you within an hour or two. 

Hours turned to days. 

You texted them a few times, listless, half-assed messages that did little to reassure them. You would send a pathetic I’m fine or a It’s okay here and there, only after they had both blown your phone up for a few hours. It was the only reason they hadn’t tried to tear your door off its hinges; they knew you were alive, at least. But by the third day, Katsuki was beside himself, and even Eijirou was getting upset enough to consider using his quirk to get to you. 

You wished that he would. You didn’t want to face them, but at the same time, the fact that they weren’t tearing the building apart to reach you was making you even sadder. Your sad scent was starting to leech out into the rest of the dorms, and by the end of the fifth day, nobody could stop your alphas. 

“Oy!” Bakugou snarled, his fist thudding against your door. “Open up, omega!”

You didn’t answer, too weak and listless to bother. 

“Babe?” Kirishima asked, his voice strained with the effort of not yelling in panic. 

“We know you’re in there,” Katsuki growled. “Quit avoiding us!”

Still, you didn’t answer. 

Then, you could hear some shuffling, and the door was being torn off its hinges by Kirishima. Bakugou stormed in as soon as the path was clear, his red eyes blazing with anger, his hands balled into fists.

“You’d better show your face right fuckin’ now, or I swear I—“

He fell silent at the sight of you. His eyes widened, his nostrils flaring. Your scent was so strong and so incredibly miserable that a wave of nausea passed through him. He hadn’t expected that it would be so pungent in your room, and as he covered his mouth and nose with his hand, he rushed towards you.

“Baby,” he cooed, vaguely aware of Kirishima behind him, “what the fuck is going on?”

You tried to bury yourself in your nest, trying to burrow away from the world, but a big hand caught you around the middle and pulled you back out. Eijirou manhandled you easily, his eyes wide with concern as he sat on the floor and placed you in his lap.

“You haven’t been eating,” he observed, looking at your tired eyes. “Or sleeping.”

Katsuki was beside himself with worry. He was immediately sitting in front of his boyfriend, caging you in between them as he began looking you over. “What the hell is goin’ on?”

You didn’t want to tell them. Your throat was sore from crying, and you felt stupid for being so upset. So, you did the only logical thing you could think of and buried your face in Kirishima’s broad chest, clinging to his shirt weakly.

“Omega, please,” the big redhead pleaded, leaning his head down to scent you. “Tell us.”

You shook your head.

“We know Somethin’ is wrong, so spit it out!” Katsuki barked.

His voice was harsh, but you felt a warm, gentle hand on your back that could only be his. The familiar touch made you sigh, and after a shuddery breath, the dam finally broke.

“Th-there was an alpha,” you whimpered, voice muffled by Kirishima.

“What the fuck did they do?” Katsuki growled, his voice deep and savage. It sent a chill down your spine and you whined, clinging to Eijirou for dear life.

“Cut it out,” Kirishima snapped, snorting at his boyfriend angrily. “You’re making it worse.”

“I just wanna know what happened!” He grumbled, his hand pressing into your back.

You hiccuped as a little sob wracked your body. “A-an alpha I rejected, h-he told me…he told me that I wasn’t good enough for you.”

The low rumble in Kirishima’s chest was like nothing you had ever felt before. It was threatening and powerful, putting Bakugou’s growl a moment ago to shame. His arms tightened around you, the scent gland on his neck slipping over your hair as he tried to cover up your unhappy omega stink.

“I’m gonna fucking kill him.” Kirishima snarled, uncharacteristically angry.

“Hey.” Bakugou slipped a hand around your waist, prying you away from the other alpha slightly. “Look at me.”

You faced him with teary eyes, and when you tried to shy away, he took your chin in his fingers. 

“We fuckin’ love you. Okay? I don’t say it much. Maybe I should say it more. But it’s true, ‘n no stupid, two-bit, shitty-ass alpha knows anything about the three of us.”

He leaned forward, pushing you back up against Kirishima with his head resting on your shoulder. You finally sighed, surrounded by the scents of your alphas, allowing yourself to relax as the dam broke and your crying started all over again. This time, though, it was freeing, and as your alphas rocked back and forth with you, you felt the dread and the anxiety slowly leaving your stomach. 

“Better?” Eijirou asked after a while. 

“A little.” you said, voice muffled by his tear-stained shirt. 

“Good.” Katsuki said gruffly, pulling you up to stand. “Let’s go get some food in you. Point that shitbag out if you see him...I wanna have a few words.”

[djarinsbeskar]

Foul - Boxer!Din AU

Definition - To break one of boxing’s rules (i.e. hitting an opponent below the navel, ear or while they are down), which can ultimately lead to point deductions if they are repeated.

A/N: The results of my Boxer!AU poll told me that the majority were interested in a jealous/protective boxer so I hope I have delivered! As always, relaxed fit = unedited, no beta. We also have a sneaky introduction to Paz in the Boxer verse which is super exciting! His concept art has been completed by the insanely talented @ronnieiswriting when I said I saw a mix of Jason Momoa and Winston Duke as our heavy. PLEASE heed the warnings in this chapter. There is nothing explicit but the topics hinted at might be triggering.

Word Count: 7k

Rating: 18+ (NO Minors)

Warnings: SMUT! (unprotected sex), blood and violence, toxic masculinity and derogatory speech, hints at discussions of non-con, somewhat possessive behavior, spanking, dom!Din and everything that comes with it.

Main Masterlist | Boxer Materlist

He might as well have been in hell. A colosseum of decaying humanity and dirt floors that erupted in a burst of dust like poisonous ash every time his next opponent fell. The hollow thump of pure muscle meeting the ground of the makeshift ring only drowned by the cheers of spectators. Masked, shadowed—unseen as they dropped hundreds – thousands sometimes – on which gladiator would remain standing in the end.

He felt like a king, a god among men within the confines of his realm of rope and canvas. It was easy to forget—standing under the spotlights that highlighted the sweat and blood and sculpted beauty of primal masculinity that it was a hollow victory any time he fought in the seedy underground rings of Akiva.

Every gladiator was a slave. Even the victor.

Why the fuck did he think it was a good idea to let you come to one of these fights?

“Enough!”

Paz’s unassailable strength banded around Din’s chest, pinning his arms to his side—attempting to contain lightning in a glass jar. Sweat, blood—it all dripped into Din’s eyes as he growled at his opponent, passed out in the middle of the dirt ring—face swollen and puffy from Din’s fists.

Laser focus and animosity spilled from charcoal eyes as he tried to break free of his friends hold with a vicious yank forward of powerful shoulder and an unfaltering purpose. The bastard had it coming. One round a few punches wasn’t enough to slake Din’s anger, the fumes of rage seeping into his skin and clouding his senses until all he could think of was making the asshole on the ground before him pay.

The practiced speed that Din wrapped his hands slowed at the rowdy group on the other side of the room. Dammit, for all the money they brought in, could these cheapskates not provide separate fucking changing rooms so he didn’t have to be subjected to idiots jacking themselves up on testosterone and false hope?

But pissing contests and fragile masculinity weren’t what caught his attention. He could tune that bullshit out like a fine art. What caught Din’s attention was the obvious death wish one of his possible opponents had – if he even managed to get that far up the ranks to Din – when he waved a red flag in front of the boxers’ metaphorical bull.

“See that one in the front row? You know the one I’m talking about.”

Bawdy agreements and asinine gestures raked up Din’s spine, thorny—and prickling nerves of instinct that made him pause the music blaring in his ears. He fucking hated the scum he came across in these fights. Gang members, criminals—the dredges of humanity he sometimes worried he was part of.

“Gonna get her on her knees choking on my cock before the night is out. Sluts like that love titles, champions—why else do they attend? Good excuse to win tonight, eh fellas?”

“Do you wanna completely destroy your career?” Paz yelled over the chortles and raucous cheers for more, for revenge—for everything under the poor fallacy of a sun that strung in dim, bald bulbs along the notoriously infamous Avika fighting ring.

Din thought you would be safe, arrogantly assuming people would avoid even looking at you once they saw who you were with. And you had been—you were safe, but even he couldn’t protect you from the thoughts of others.

The larger man struggled with him, dragging him out of the ring when it was obvious his words were falling on deaf ears. All Din could hear was the little pricks voice in his head from hours before.

Din stood.

Inhaled, exhaled—tried those bullshit breathing exercises that were supposed to focus his mind before a fight. Help to rein in a temper like his from overflowing in devastating tidal waves to destroy all around him. Din didn’t lose his temper often—but when he did, it was lethal.

The breathing exercises didn’t work.

Because the idiot kept talking.

“Did you see the ass on that?”

Leers sounded from his group of friends. Encouraging the vile words that Din always knew came from a man who felt entitled to a woman’s body. He had seen enough of the underbelly of the world to know what that led to time and again. Din might have been shameless in his youth and even until recently when it came to sex, to one night stands, to women—but he fucking respected the girls he fucked or didn’t fuck.

“Traipsing around in a dress like that? She’s looking for the attention,” the asshole defended himself when one of his party voiced an alternative point of view. They were promptly shut down and didn’t speak again.

Din’s blood turned to ice. An image of you running a hand down his arm on your way to your seat when you parted ways for him to get ready, dress sinfully tight but effortlessly classy—a zip front he was dying to pull open with his teeth later that night.

“It’ll look so good with my cock buried in it…”

The ice in his blood turned to fury, white hot and molten as he tied off the tape at his wrists—throwing the roll into the dingy locker he had been given for the evening. The clatter of noise from where it slammed against the metal back was the only warning he was planning on giving them. The lull of conversation was fleeting, his warning going unheeded—when dim-witted morons didn’t read the murder in his gaze.

Looks like they weren’t nearly as intelligent as the pigs he thought them to be.

Grabbing his water bottle and phone, Din stalked towards the chipped door—distracting himself with a text of “don’t go anywhere alone in this place, sweetheart. Ask Paz to go with you” sent to you without a second thought.

The immediate response of “Yes yes I know, for the thousandth time. Don’t worry and focus on yourself” did little to assuage the roar of blood in his ears. There was only one thing he heard over the noise, one thing as his vision became hued in red and fixated on a single target.

“Wonder if she’ll let me fuck her there too—can’t imagine she’s a virgin but her ass will still probably be tighter than her cunt.”

Bald headed and littered in scars and tattoos of a gang known for their viciousness, the other boxer – if he could even be called that – thrust vulgarly into the air, mimicking the hold he would have on the girl. Din’s girl.

The fucker had a death wish.

And Din was only too happy to play the part of the grim reaper.

His friends voice hardly registered over that same ringing in his ears, the roar of protective aggression at the lecherous sneer on the other man’s face who now lay in a heap in the dirt, the filth he spewed about his masseuse, his girl. How beady eyes, cold and villainous dared to drift away from Din before the bell sounded—over his shoulder, to where he knew you were sitting. Knowing your body had been tainted by the gaze of a man who would sooner take what he wanted from you by force than look at you with anything akin to the respect you deserved—it made something snap inside of Din.

And he attacked.

He was lucky he had only been disqualified.

He was damn lucky no one called the cops.

But the perks of underground fighting, was that everyone who attended had something to hide. And no one wanted to be caught in the middle of shady transactions or betting on fighters to beat each other to a pulp. Hell, the savagery Din subjected the other guy to was exactly what half the fuckers who showed up hoped to see.

Din wasn’t just a nameless street fighter though, not anymore. He had something to lose. Any smear on his record for assault and he would be suspended from tournament participation quicker than the asshole’s body dropped after a crushing blow under the jaw by Din’s right uppercut.

Thank fuck Din’s main sponsor was equally as shady. A good man by Din’s logic, but merciless when it came to succeeding. Din being benched was the surest way to make his benefactors patience run out. No, Paz was right—Boba even more so when he clocked Din good in the cheek after Paz wrestled the irate male out of the ring.

“You fucking idiot, bloodlust is an ugly image, boy—”

“I am not a boy—” Din snapped at Boba, teeth bared and bloody from his split lip, neck straining when he spat the words viciously at his long-time coach. He ran his tongue over the metallic tang of blood before spitting it out of his mouth onto the dirt flooring by the chaotic rows of metal seating.

“You almost killed a guy in the ring, you little shit,” Boba snarled with equal venom, matching the anger reflected in Din’s gaze with furious sense Din didn’t want to witness.

“Let me go,” was all Din growled, eyes never leaving his coach’s even when Paz loosened his arms around his chest. Heaving, coal black eyes darkened dangerously and stabbed the former boxer with a dare to try and restrain him again. The other man shook a rope of dreadlock that had come loose from the strip of leather he kept his hair tied in and made to say something when Din interrupted,

“Where is she?”

Paz closed his mouth, heavy brows furrowing over his eyes as recognition dawned in their dark hues,

“Is that what this is about? Dammit, vod—it’s not like she’s your girlfriend, isn’t that what you always say?”

“Don’t fucking try me tonight—” Din snapped aggressively, the threatening hum between the two men charged to dangerous voltage.

“Din?”

Your voice washed over him – aloe on the burns his fury had scorched his skin with – and he was making his way over to you in the next moment, mind battling with instinct as he ignored the calls and curses of his friends.

Mine.

Not yours—

Mine.

He moved with feral grace, parting the sea of people who bleated from the sidelines but cowered in his presence once his attention was facing them and there was no canvas or rope to separate boxer from spectator. They were lucky. He didn’t see them. Would step on them if they were stupid enough to stay in his path. All he could see, was you—watching him with confusion and concern marring those pretty features, absent of fear in the face of an incensed, adrenaline fueled boxer post fight.

He exhaled a growl as he came to stand before you, the sound cavernous and deep in his chest—the hands you had lifted to examine his face intercepted by his own when he grabbed them. His fingers wrapped fully around your wrists, and he was reminded of how fragile you were – even if you worked out whenever you could and had a will of iron that would make you whack him for saying that – and just how easily a man like him, any of the fighters here tonight—could hurt you.

Never.

They wouldn’t dare.

Not with him around.

But how could they know?

How would they know to stay the fuck away from you?

Knuckles stained with dirt and blood; his hand rasped against the softness of your palm as he dragged you in the direction of the unused backstage waiting room fighters had been offered as a changing room. Where this whole fucking thing started.

“Din—Din, what the hell happened up there?”

You jogged behind him to keep up with his pace, long legs taking him farther than your shorter ones could when confined to the heels you had worn for the night out. He stalked through the dimly lit corridors to the flaky, chipped door with a temporary sign on lined paper with “ATHLETES” scrawled along the front of it like some ironic joke.

He almost bent the worn, cheap metal handle in half—nearly pulled it from its socket with how hard he tore the door open and dragged you over the threshold inside.

You whirled on him with a huff, eyes flashing and hands planting on your hips in growing annoyance.

“Din will you just—”

You didn’t get another word out.

His wrapped hands cupped your cheeks between them, his mouth on yours hungrily when he bent over you. Biting, clawing, desperate—the kiss was more a battle of tongue and teeth than anything else. There was nothing soft, nothing slow or affectionate about the way his teeth sank into your bottom lip so hard you gasped. The way the blood seeping from his split lip painted yours in a crimson rouge—smeared and varnishing you in a visceral mark of his claim.

“Mine,” he snarled unknowingly into your mouth, lapping his tongue along the prairies of your tastebuds, plundering the depths of your mouth to brand every inch of you he could reach. Inside and out. His hands had the same idea, forming down over the shape of your curves as he walked you back blindly to the disused vanity pushed against the closest wall. Topped with a row of mirrors undoubtedly used by performers for whatever this place had once been used for, the glass was now aged with discoloration.

It didn’t matter.

He didn’t have eyes for anything but you as he hiked your legs up to perch you on the edge, your fingers curled into the taut muscles at his neck and clawing down over the sweat slick muscles of his pecs—catching on flat nipples that made ripples of pleasure heat his body further. Mad him tangle a hand in your hair, yank your head back harshly and meet your eyes with dark desire before dropping to your neck. His newest target.

“Din…” your irritated, questioning tone had morphed to fervent sighs. His tongue mapped a trail from the corner of your mouth – tasting the tang of his own blood – to the rapid tattoo of your pulse, a delicate sheen of perspiration beginning to shimmer on your flushed skin from the arousal. Another layer of flavor for him to get drunk on.

So fucking hot under his hands.

So beautiful.

So his.

“Mine,” he repeated into the curve of your neck, framed by tremulous stretches of muscle either side that he carved with scrapes of his teeth to leave tracks of slow fading pink grazes before he bit into it. Your legs – already open and inviting him to settle between them – crossed at the ankles around his narrow hips to keep him close. It was fucking intoxicating the way he could make you feel, the desperate need he had for you.

Months of sleeping together, of knowing his body so intimately had given you a rare insight to his emotions whether he knew it or not. And you knew he didn’t need to talk right now, he needed to fuck. To work through whatever had affected him so badly in hard kisses and rough hands on your soft flesh. It didn’t stop your stomach from flipping at his possessive words though, deliriously spoken but whispering the unacknowledged desires you had for him beyond his body.

“Yours,” you admitted before you could stop yourself, your hand cupping under his jaw to lift his mouth back to yours. His raspy moan at your agreement turned positively filthy when you carded short nails through his damp hair. Din was weak to having his hair stroked, his staunch dominance buckling in violent shivers of pleasure when you dragged those skilled fingers down the back of his skull and neck.

Traipsing around in a dress like that…

His eyes flew open, and he broke the kiss—ripped his mouth from yours to press his forehead to yours, eyes searching while his free hand ran indulgently up your torso to the neckline of your dress,

“Never let anyone disrespect you, sweetheart—” he rumbled, his fingers already undoing the zip of the dress, the nude pink material tempting to the eye and celebrating those features you were most proud of—that he found irresistible to know you loved. That someone could make you uncomfortable in those clothes… fucker. He snarled and pressed a long kiss to your mouth, large hands spreading the sides of the dress open wide – no underwear, baby? – and shucked the material down your arms to leave you bare before him.

His appreciation for your body – fucking gorgeous – was only tampered by the frustration he had with himself at the noise of confusion you made at his words. Of course, you hadn’t heard anything that asshole had said thankfully—but fuck, he couldn’t get it out of his head. You read his desperation somehow, and nodded slowly with puzzled eyes, teeth sinking into your swollen bottom lip as you leaned back on your hands.

So trusting…

Fuck.

It made alarm and something akin to fear rise swell uncomfortably in his throat.

He tried again.

“Never let anyone take advantage of you,” he whispered against your mouth in earnest, his hands running up your bare thighs to press his thumbs into the seams of your legs and hips, “tell me—”

His mouth dropped to your collarbone, funneling those feelings into lapping down to your heaving breasts, sucking a nipple into his mouth with a groan and befuddling your mind to his request until he nipped the swollen peak – say it, baby – and caused your head to fall back against the mirror,

“Yes—yes,” you moaned, “I won’t—”

He snarled internally, dammit. Hearing you say it didn’t help. He wanted to say how he wouldn’t let anyone disrespect you, how he wouldn’t let anyone ever take advantage of you. But he couldn’t. Had to frame it like advice he would give any woman he knew instead of speaking it like the promise he wanted to make.

Din had been fucking you for the last few months now, exclusively after only a few months—but it never went beyond that. He had no reason, no excuse to be worried over your life or safety or what you did when you weren’t in his bed. He wasn’t expected to be involved in your life the way a friend or family member was. Not the way a boyfriend was.

He didn’t do relationships. Never had. Too much trouble and frankly—he liked his privacy, his space—and liked not being accountable to anyone but himself. The consequences of any shitty decisions he made would fall on him and him alone. If he demanded that of the women he slept with and then insisted on inserting himself into their lives in the next breath, he would be a hypocrite. And Din hated hypocrites.

He couldn’t.

But fuck. He never wanted to hear someone speak that way about you, never wanted them to think they had the slightest chance with a woman like you. His blood boiled at the notion of someone else’s hands on you, his tempered flared when he imagined your pleasure or smiles, or laughter give to someone who didn’t deserve you.

Like he did?

Fuck no, he knew he didn’t.

He never said he wasn’t selfish though, and he coveted you with sinful greed.

“Fuck me, baby—please, please—” you mewled into his neck as your hands that had started all of this with that first massage, fit into the sliver of space between your bodies to stroke along his cock over his shorts impatiently. His head fell back, and his mind blissfully emptied for a moment, grunting your name at the frisson of pleasure before those damned memories resurfaced again.

Look at the ass on that.

That.

Her. You weren’t a thing, a possession. You were—

He snarled. Misplaced anger manifesting in aggressive passion as he grabbed your wrist from where you stroked him to pin behind your back on the vanity.

“Always so eager, aren’t you—” he grinned darkly when you nodded, “turn around.”

The command was delivered low and dangerous, more a rumble of noise—deep echoes of jungle predators crackling like the kindling of threat, inspiring awareness that one wrong move would be fatal. But you never made a wrong move—not for as long as he had known you. Whether it was alleviating a pain deep in his muscles that had bothered him for months or pushing yourself slowing off the vanity to your feet as you were now—you always knew what he needed.

Wisps of hair fell into his eyes as he watched you—the decided turn of your naked body to dace the mirror—eyes never leaving his even as they caught them again in the aged glass. Bending forward, your ass pressed into the front of his shorts, and you rested your elbows on the vanity.

Perfect.

He didn’t realize he had whispered the word as he pressed his mouth between your shoulder blades, tongue trailing down the arch of your spine while his hands kneaded plush cheeks—spreading them and exposing your slick cunt to the cool air. The hitches in your breath, small squirms of your hips for relief—they all fed into his desire for you.

And he desired you. Constantly.

“I’m gonna eat your pussy until you can’t stand, baby—and then I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t speak,” he muttered against the shell of your ear, massive bulk bowed over your back and shadowed eyes – the duality of warm walnut and lethal obsidian – bore into yours through the glass.

“I want them all to know who you belong to,” he nipped your ear, flicking his tongue along the cartilage—the black ink on his back catching the light as his muscles rippled with movement, a roll of pleasure from your ass grinding back against him with a whimper of his name, “so don’t be quiet this time, sweetheart.”

Your eyes fluttered open molasses slow from where they had dropped closed at his words,

“What—what hap—” you tried to turn your head, the concern mingled with lust in those gorgeous, honest eyes making warning bells blare painfully – too close – and he silenced you with a kiss. Swallowing the worry that hinted at feelings that surpassed those expected from a fuck buddy, he buried it deep inside himself, in the shadows like a coward. To be locked away where he would remain safe from it.

Your tongue grew sloppy with a moan when he ground his crotch into your ass—dragging the solid thickness of his clothed cock between your soaked folds and up against your tight rear entrance.

Wonder if she’ll let me take her there…

Bastard.

He sucked on your tongue with a groan of your name, hand releasing your cheeks to fan up your ribcage and cup your breasts. You jerked in sensitivity when rough hands pinched sore nipples – he fucking loved how sensitive your tits got just before your period. The cry you released was nothing short of musical, tempting him lower as he kissed down your spine—wrapped hands sanding down over your ribs again when he lapped around the rim of your ass, circling it before he traced lower.

You were dripping.

He dropped to his knees behind you, eyes drunken with an ingrained pride that he was the one in this position, looking at the petals of your swollen pussy glistening with arousal he inspired from just a few kisses and rolls of his hips. He kept his eyes on the steady trickle of wetness from your twitching entrance, his teeth grazing distractedly down the back of your thigh as he did so.

A finger ruddy with flecks of dried blood caught a string of your arousal – don’t waste a drop – and he sucked it between his lips with an approving groan, the noise of your whimpers the perfect accompaniment. Blood and lust. The essence of humanity, that was what he tasted when he sucked his finger clean. It tasted like life. And he wanted more.

A sharp crack echoed through the room when his hand came down hard on one cheek, and again... and again—each strike making that dripping wetness gush until he couldn’t hold back anymore. He buried his face in your cunt, nosing at your entrance and tongue spreading puffy lips apart so he could trace in pitter patter swipes through your folds—greedily gathering anything he could get on his tongue before swallowing. Dehydrated on the sands of depravity and sordid company—your cunt was an oasis of relief where he eagerly drank his fill.

You tried to move, your hips slamming up against the edge of the vanity – that’ll bruise – and you keened with a shuddering cry when his mouth simply followed your attempt to escape the onslaught of pleasure that was too much too soon.

“Fuck—fuckfuckfuck—” you gasped, dropping a hand back to tangle in his hair, dragging him closer despite your protests. Mm, he loved when you got like this—overstimulated from the first touch. No matter how much you whined, no matter how many times he wiped tears that smudged your makeup when he unraveled orgasm after orgasm from the knots inside you—he knew you loved the intensity as much as he did.

He spanked you again – take it – your cheeks red and beautiful when he spread them side for him to spit directly onto your quivering cunt. His saliva dribbled and mixed with your juices to gather over your clit, his mouth forming over the little bud enthusiastically, urged by your slow ruts back against his face to streak his face with your essence.

“More—” you whimpered.

“Greedy—” he growled back.

The sound of your breathless laugh meshed delightfully with the swallow of a moan – guttural and primal – and made his cock twitch in his shorts. His hips snapped up uselessly from where he was kneeling—finding no purchase or warm embrace to bury itself in as his tongue took that pleasure for itself.

It licked and curled with practiced, seemingly illogical strokes along your clit and up to your entrance—sloppily kissing it before his tongue dove into your tight depths, thumb working in quick circles over your clit. He knew exactly what to do to make you come undone.

Your first orgasm was sudden—strong and surprising. He hadn’t even fucking fingered you and you were already spasming around nothing. Your muscles tensed as you went on your toes to lean even further on the vanity, trying to escape his tongue that worked you through each wave—drowning you in the pleasure he knew only he could give you. You were his. His his his his h—

You sobbed his name, a raw answer to his internal mantra his mind struggled against and failed to overcome.

Din wanted you.

He wanted your body, your mind, your time—he wanted what Paz had.

Fuck.

The way the older man mooned and gazed with shameless adoration for the little baker he had fallen for in so short a time. Hell, Din teased him over it constantly. And maybe he didn’t want that—but he wanted something. Din wanted something with you. Wanted you to visit him in the gym and stop him mid set just to kiss him and tell him that you would wait for him to finish so you could go home together. He wanted to buy you flowers without having to think of a fucking excuse like last time to distance himself from the sentimentality. He wanted to open his front door and feel our presence as more than just a visitor. That a toothbrush and the stray pieces of clothing you forgot at his place would turn to shoes at the door and your taste in décor mixing with his.

Din wanted you.

But he had no idea how to do anything but fuck you. He didn’t know how to date or be romantic. Was clueless to things like companionship—to the softer emotions he knew you craved. That all people craved. Din had no idea how to do any of it.

You lay with your cheek on the wooden surface of the vanity, eyes half-closed and spacey as you watched him lift his head from your pussy, face shiny from your release and when he licked over his lips, still hungry for more—you mewled.

“Don’t tap out on me yet, sweetheart.”

You shook your head, a whimper and almost childish refusal while your cheek remained plastered to the vanity, all strength having left your body and an adorable pout trying to lie and tell him you couldn’t take any more.

“Mm, yes you can—” he answered you, dragging his mouth back up your slit and along your tight ass where he lapped at the rim again. Later. It took time for him to stretch you to take his size—it was better left for when he had you in his apartment and could take his time.

His hand followed his mouths direction as it continued up to meet your mouth—smirking against your lips at the whimpers you made from the slaps he gave your pussy—the obscene, wet sound filling the area with each slap slap slap until his hand was damn near slipping every time he struck your cunt from how wet it was.

A bang on the door—a harsh slap to your pussy so you would moan just right for him, and he growled out a threatening “occupied” to whoever was outside. You were too high strung to even notice.

“No one else can have you,” he rasped darkly into your temple, his free hand tangling in the strands to pull your head back against his shoulder—the position no doubt edging on uncomfortable with the way your spine and neck were arched back—moUlded into his hard frame. Your eyes fell to half mast even as your lips parted—still smeared with specks of blood you hadn’t yet licked or chewed off—and he bit your jaw in warning.

“No one else—” you parroted, your hot breath fanning over his cheek even as you rocked back against him, a steel confidence entering your fucked out gaze—mercurial in the swirling heat, “just like no one else can have you.”

The boldness of your words, the conviction spoken in that voice of wooden flutes and bubbling creeks made his blood light with fire—yes. As much as he anted you, he yearned for you to crave him in return.

“No one else,” he repeated your words back to you, rutting his hips against you when his cock pulsed with a negligent ache that demanded to be addressed. He kept one hand in your hair when he pushed his shorts down enough to free his leaking cock, the turgid length swollen and angry as he rubbed the tip between your lips.

Maybe he would buy you flowers tomorrow, after all.

Din gave you no time to prepare yourself – that’s my girl – sliding inside you with one brutal thrust that had you pushed up against the mirror and his cock engulfed in fiery bliss. He felt the heat run up his spine, a volcanic metamorphism into marble as his muscles froze in an immediate pause to stop himself from spilling inside you after one damn thrust.

You weren’t doing much better—one hand clawing for purchase on the mirror and the other digging your nails into his hip as you panted his name, an incoherent string of curses and praise as your sensitive walls convulsed around him. The position had him pressed right against that one spot he cock curved up against that could make you see stars and your care for being caught dissipate in cries of ecstasy.

“Baby—fuck please, so—too deep—” you whimpered in inane babbles, tightening in residual spasms from your orgasm and the sudden intrusion of his cock, still a stretch after all these months. Too deep… he snorted, rolling his hips hard to try shove himself deeper still. He could never get deep enough, always wanting more—always seeking to conquer the untouched lands of your body.

“Mm, want me to stop?” he teased, dragging his hips back with a smirk at your immediate rejection of no no no fuck—please, no—hand pathetically trying to drag him closer to you by the hip. Lovely little thing… thinking you were strong enough.

“That’s better…” he purred, relief washing over him when he pulled out—the walls of your cunt stretching around him, refusing his exit, and trying to keep him nestled inside you. The pace he chose was brutal. He fucked you like he fought tonight. Violently, mercilessly—and deaf to the calls to relent. But where he wanted his opponent to suffer, he wanted to devastate you with pleasure, enrapture you with ecstasy and leave you moaning his name where others would curse it.

Wet cock slapping as he pounded into you in short, frantic ruts – need you baby… fuck I need you – there was no time for you to catch a full breath before he was knocking it out of you again. His fingers had to tighten in your hair to keep you up – your body trembling under his as he sank his teeth into the taut muscle at your neck and his cock sank into your welcome body – exposed and waiting for him to litter in his signature.

He would never get enough of the way his marks looked on your skin—the way you decorated him in yours. You were powerless to do much else than accept them right now – likely getting him back later – boneless and weak under the attack of his mouth and the dominance of his body.

He would make sure everyone in this fucking shithole of a place knew who you were with. They would have to be blind not to notice the blotches of poppy bruises snaking down your neck with the elusion to more hidden from unworthy eyes. The smudge of your mascara as tears pearled like crystals in the corner of your eyes when you glanced at him in strung out bliss.

“M-more—” you begged, dropping one of your hands between your legs to rub at your clit—fingers splitting around the girth of his cock as he fucked you to feel the thick length disappear into you over and over, the soaked mess amassed from your frantic desire for each other trickling down your thighs.

“Yeah?” he grinned, breathless and sweating for much more pleasing reasons than he had been in the ring, a languid kiss to your neck as he hiked one of your knees up onto the vanity—spreading you wider for him to sink deeper.

You spasmed, your head falling back against his shoulder with a cry.

“Yes—there, there baby, fuck you feel so good…” you rambled, fingers working feverishly over your clit in wet strokes, grazing his balls every time they slapped against your skin and making him muffle his moan in your neck.

Rolling a nipple between his fingers, his large—bloodied hand completely swallowed your breast, squeezing it and tickling sounds that belonged to him from you and into his mouth when you kissed him. One last kiss before you collapsed back onto the vanity, and he stood to his full height so he could ruin you with his cock.

His name was the only thing you remembered as he split you open with full, hard thrusts—the entire length of his cock stretching your tight walls around it and playing along raw nerves already on the brink of another orgasm.

“Gonna cum, sweetheart—” he strained, desperate for release as he watched himself fuck you in the mirror—him behind your smaller body, squirming under the pleasure while his muscles bunched and relaxed with each snap of his hips—the veins in his forearms prominent and tendons taut as he poured all that training and dedication and determination into you, into pleasing you.

“Inside—inside, Din fuck, please—”

His mind emptied. Nothing else mattered about tonight—not the fight, not the disqualification, not the rage. Your eyes—cloudy with lust and achingly trusting as you looked back at him were all he could think about. Nodding without even realizing, the thought of filling you running in his mind on a loop.

“Fuck—!”

He wanted you to cum before him, he always did—but he was so high strung, so tense that he couldn’t stop himself, burying himself to the hilt with several punched out moans—exhaled rapture with every pump of his seed against your waiting womb. Your eyes rolled closed at the amount, bloating you with his release and as he came, you worked your clit frantically—chasing that addictive edge you gladly hurled yourself over at just the thought of him coming inside you.

Din dropped his forehead to your shoulder with a gasp, your spasming walls too much on his sensitive length but he had to stay inside—the contractions of pleasure, the gush of your release might push his out. He couldn’t have that. So, he gritted his teeth, mumbled husky praise – good girl, that’s it—just like that, soak me – to work you through your orgasm and pressed open mouth kisses to sweaty skin, the salt tickling his tongue as he caught his breath.

His mouth worked over the sweep of your shoulder, up your neck to your jaw when your orgasm subsided, purring your name and nonsensical strings of words he had no idea made sense or not. He finally eased his softening cock out of you slowly when you shifted your hips—testing your strength and finding it lacking when you realized both he and the vanity were what kept your legs up.

“Feel… feel better?”

“Mhm…” he confirmed noncommittally, nuzzling the marks beginning to bloom and darken like a forbidden garden only he was allowed indulge in the scent of. One of his hands ran absently down the back of your thigh, feeling for his release—pleased to feel nothing but your sticky arousal, his own still nestled inside your sore cunt.

“Want one of those crepes you’re always raving about from that twenty-four hour place?” he purred, helping you stand—going so far as to pull the straps of your dress back up so that zipping the metal teeth would be easier. Your eyes brightened despite the lazy, satiated fatigue hiding in their orbs.

“Gino’s?”

“Mm,” he nodded, looking down from his greater height and lips quirking in an annoying desire to smile when one – bright as daylight – broke out on yours.

You nodded quickly, looping your arms around his neck to drag him down to your mouth, kissing him good and proper while his hands fell under the still open sides of your dress to settle on bare hips,

“Are you ever going to tell me what set you off tonight?” you mumbled against his lips cautiously, the ghost of a smile from the promise of dessert still lingering but a hesitant worry entering your gaze, unsure if his mood would sour again.

It didn’t.

He nudged his nose along yours, aquiline curve slotting along yours as he hummed in thought, thumbs rubbing lazily into your hips,

“Maybe later,” he settled on and captured your lips again.

You left the changing room together, his gym bag slung over one shoulder and his free arm wrapped around your shoulder—nose never leaving your temple or nuzzling into your hair with blatant affection as you blushed at how obvious it was to anyone who saw you what you had been doing.

You had both tried to tidy yourselves—cleaning the corners of your makeup and trying to flatten your mused hair was about all you could do. Din didn’t even attempt to cover the freshly fucked look of messy hair and heavy eyes as he pulled an unzipped Mythosaur Gym hoodie on over his muscle shirt.

A group were passing in the corridor as you asked him something—his former opponent with one eye swollen shut from the bruises forming around his eye, jaw, and cheeks. Din answered you easily, an automatic response to whatever you were asking as his eyes met his opponents, cold fury and arrogant pride flashing in their depths.

You remained none the wiser as you passed the group, Din’s body protectively placed between you and them. He probably should have told you; he knew you wouldn’t be swayed by it—comfortable in your body as you were, but he couldn’t bring himself to. He could protect you from slander and toxicity at the very least—and he planned to. Even if he had to do so in the shadows for now.

For himself, the swelling and bruising on the idiots’ face weren’t the only thing he had to satisfy himself with. He was the one whose cum was still buried inside you, clinging to your thighs and keeping you slick and wet for him to add more to later when he got you back to his place. And as you glanced up at him with a disarming smile after he dropped his hoodie over your shoulders without a thought once you both were outside in the crisp air of the early morning darkness—he secretly hoped that he would be the only one to have that privilege from then on.

Taglist | Form

@geannad @ayamenimthiriel @sarahjkl82-blog @gracie7209 @pychedelic-star @nova646 @theflightytemptressadventure @wantingtobekorra @computeringturtle @slayerette26 @kesskirata @greatcircle79 @boxdyeblonde @fangirl-316 @niiight-dreamerrrr @tanzthompson @theamuz @gallowsjoker @helmet-comes-off @jesfreedark @amyk-37 @altarsw @feminist-violinist @spideysimpossiblegirl @lazybeeches @shameless-h  @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @mamacitapascal @the-ginger-hedge-witch @disgruntledspacedad @asta-lily @aesnawan @frannyzooey @gaiuswrites @beskarboobs @honestly-shite @sherala007 @cats-are-a-girls-bestfriend @missminkylove @pedros-mustache @headinthestarz @leannawithacapitala @sharkbait77 @radiowallet  @danidrabbles @magpie-to-the-morning @mandocrasis @juletheghoul @javierpinme @voteforpedro09 @theorganasolo @aprilqueen84 @Prostitute-robot-from-the-future @wanderlustmags @darnitdraco @castleamc @outlawedmando @lawfulgranola @jaime1110 @c-a-v-a-l-r-y @taticalsparkles @chasingdreamer @beautyagegoodnesssize @pintsizemama @recklessworry @tarolovesyoo @xgoldenjenny @prideandpascal @amneris21 @mylovelycomandante @ohhersheybars @heartsofbeskar

A few who might be interested! @thepoisonofgod @absurdthirst @highsviolets @astroboots​ 

[wallflowerimagines]

Hi! I looove your posts! Thank you so much for sharing your writing!

I was wondering… could you maybe write about the Four Lords with a shy S/O that gets bold and defensive when someone insults the lords? or calls them names? And the Lord’s reaction to the S/O acting different? Dk if im explaining myself >.<

Again! Love your work! Have a great day!

We stan protective partners on this blog!!

Warnings: uh...insults? They're pretty over the top😅 Also swearing.

Alcina Dimitrescu

Honestly, Alcina is more than able to defend herself.

She's got a tongue like a viper, and the thickest skin imaginable. If you really want to hurt her feelings, you have to be someone whom she already respects to a certain degree, or she won't even be phased.

Still, when she leaves a room, there's always some idiot that thinks it's a smart idea to talk shit.

Maybe it's a maid, maybe it's a guest in the Castle, but either way you're not having it.

"God, you're annoying." There was a pause before they opened their mouth again, and you rolled your eyes. "No please, by all means, continue to share your lack of taste with the rest of us."

You disassemble this dumbass, starting small with comments about their personality (trying to keep it classy), but escalating the more they choose to double down on the comments.

Alcina comes back into the room to find you practically screaming at this asshole.

"Look, all you have accomplished here today is revealing that you are a fundamental disappointment on every possible level. My life is worse now that I've heard you open your mouth, you disrespectful, shit licking worm fucker."

Alcina is stunned. You do not give off "aggressive guard dog" vibes at all, yet here you are defending her tooth and nail. While she had seen brief moments of your inner strength and protective streak (mostly towards her daughters) she just...never thought you would do the same for her.

It's not because she doesn't trust you or love you! But nobody has ever done something like this for her before? Ever? She's never had anyone try to protect her--not physically, and not even verbally. She's been so independent for so long that it's... Strange to see you support her so openly.

She doesn't need you to do this for her, she doesn't even expect it, but you do it anyway for no other reason than the fact that you love her. You want people to give her the respect she deserves.

I'm going to be real here: Alcina has never been closer to swooning before in her life. You're overcoming your shyness because you believe in her so much-- it's not a gesture meant to be romantic, but Alcina can't help but see this as a massive statement of your commitment to her.

Seriously. This is such a massive thing for her that if proposals weren't already on her mind, she is mentally picking out a ring for you the minute this happens.

Then, of course, she glides into the room, kisses you until you're breathless and babbling, and smirks at the unfortunate peon who thought they could get away with insulting House Dimitrescu.

She's in such a good mood that she's considering going easy on the idiot. Maybe removing their tongue would be enough of a warning?

Donna Dimitrescu

You don't really know how it's possible but apparently some people don't like Donna Beneviento? Some people think she's scary and unpleasant????

Wild. Can't imagine what that's like.

The two of you are honestly the sweetest, most toothrottingly adorable couple-- blushing when you hold each other's hands, sneaking glances at each other across rooms, giving each other kisses and forgetting whatever was on your mind...

Honestly, anybody who's critical of your relationship with your girlfriend is just a hater. Fuckers can pound sand😤

Still, you are pretty shy, so it takes a lot for you to defend yourself if someone comments about you. It can take a lot of courage to stand up against rude remarks, and sometimes it's easier to walk away.

Defending Donna, on the other hand?

The minute someone even thinks about dismissing her, you are ready to throw hands.

"My lovely girlfriend already said no, meaning you're either deaf or too stupid to pick up on simple social cues," you purse your lips and give the rude and pushy Villager a patronizing once over. "You and your opinion are equally useless. Get the fuck away from us."

Donna blinks.

She... Was not expecting this??? At all?? You're so nice! You always tell her about your attempts to avoid confrontation! What's going on??? How did you get the guts to say what she's always wanted to say?

Meanwhile, Angie is LIVING.

The little doll chimes in to assist you with the verbal homicide, working as a tag team to absolutely murder this moron. She's half partner, half hype man, and is so excited to do this with you. Normally, she has to protect Donna all by herself, but she's relieved and reassured that you stepped in first.

'USELESS IS TOO NICE, THOUGH! THAT IMPLIES THEY AREN'T A POINTLESS, RANCID, LONELY FREAK. THEY LOOK LIKE THEY CRY WHEN THEY MASTURBATE.'

You high five Angie, still glaring daggers at the unfortunate villager.

The two of you continue to ream into the villager, while Donna hovers nearby.

As surprised as she is, she's also grateful. She's only really ever had Angie to help shield her from insults and disrespect (and occasionally inducing horrifying hallucinations that make people claw off their own skin), but having you in her corner makes her feel safe.

Not to get totally sappy, but you're like her knight in shining armor in a lot of ways. And the fact you two are so similar is really motivating-- She wants to one day be confident enough to return the favor. Until then, she's happy to watch her two favorite people have fun insulting some stranger ❤️

Salvatore Moreau

With you being so shy, Salvatore is surprised how often he takes the lead in your relationship.

He's not normally all that outgoing, but you seem to bring out a side of him that's very protective. Whenever you have a bad day he wants to bundle you up and keep you safe from the world.

If he so much as holds your hand you start stuttering and avert your gaze. It creates a feedback loop where you both get flustered, but Moreau has never felt steadier. Despite your shyness, you make sure he knows how much you love him.

You're sweet as pie and twice as kind--Salvatore is the luckiest man in the world, nobody can convince him otherwise 💕💕

So it comes as a total shock that when a passing fisherman spits in your path and calls him a freak, your entire demeanor does a 180.

Your posture straightens and you look the villager dead in the eye, "I don't believe anyone asked your opinion."

Salvatore: 😳

This is not the time, and he totally knows it, but, uh, something about your tone??? Really does it for him???

While he's attempting to process why exactly he's starting to short circuit, you proceed to verbally shred this person to bits with clinical efficiency-- nothing is off limits.

They might try to defend themselves, but it's useless. You do not let up.

"Ugly? Monster? Bitch your teeth are throwing gang signs, don't throw stones from your shining glass house."

You insult their appearance, what they're holding, their smell-- you get so fucking mean that you might even make them cry.

Moreau is just lost right now, trying hard to figure out how exactly you were able to gain all of this confidence so quickly.

He's not upset! In fact he's very flattered! But, he also doesn't want you to get into a fight with some unimportant stranger. (After all, if they so much as throw a punch, they're straight up dead. Moreau is a patient man, but he's not that patient. You do not hurt his partner and live to tell the tale.)

He may a healer but...

Eventually he steps between you and the fisherman in an attempt to deescalate the situation, but you just kiss him on the cheek and step around him, determined to make your point.

Blushing hard, Moreau lets you do what you want. What can he say? Fish man likes himself a protective partner 💞

Karl Heisenberg

Magnet Man is not the most social guy to begin with, so any opportunities you have to stick up for him are already pretty slim.

He mostly knows you as the shy, sweet, easily flustered partner that lets out a cute squeak every time he sneaks up to hug you from behind.

Karl's honestly happy just to spend time with you all alone in the Factory. It's not the best or healthiest mindset, but he'd be perfectly content to only ever see you for the rest of his life. Spending time with anybody else feels like a boring waste in comparison.

But occasionally, you do head out into town with him. Heisenberg wants you to be safe so he doesn't do it often, but running errands with you is a weakness of his. It's domestic in a way that he's never experienced before.

He likes it ❤️

What he does not like is the shopkeeper starting to give their opinions on the quality of your relationship with him.

Most insults Karl will let slide because he doesn't particularly care. However if anyone makes a comment on how scared (shy) you look around him, how you must be being threatened into being with him, how poorly Lord Heisenberg is treating you...he won't stand for it.

But before his fingers can even twitch towards his hammer, you snap.

"You're clearly the blindest cocksucker I've ever met--so wipe the cum out of eyes and mind your own fucking business."

Karl does a double take.

He's heard you curse before, but quietly. The words coming out of your mouth are WILD right now, he has NEVER seen you so angry. You're defending him with the aggression of a wild animal, and it's simultaneously HILARIOUS, but for some reason he's also getting a warm fuzzy feeling in his chest?

He doesn't need you to protect him like this, but seeing you blatantly argue how much you love and cherish him in public reassures him in a way he didn't know he needed.

Still, hearing you call the shopkeeper "shit for brains" is the funniest thing that's happened in years.

Heisenberg starts laughing, and the more you shout at the idiot, the harder he laughs. Is it weird how hard he wants to kiss you right now?

Eventually, he just has to drag you away, cackling as you continue to shout insults at the unfortunate shopkeep. There's got to be an alley around here for some good old fashioned privacy 💕

[frankchurchillsaysrelax]

i might lose everything if i lose the pain

part two of two

It was exceedingly rare for a person to never receive a soulmark, but it did happen on occasion. Penelope had always been grossly fascinated by the grim tales of heartbreak and loneliness, reading the stories from far away lands of people destined for a life lived only for themselves. Now, for all intents and purposes, she was one of the misfortunate ones. 

“What do you mean you don’t have a soulmate?” Eloise all but bellows. The room goes eerily quiet in the wake of her words, everyone’s eyes turned toward Penelope. Her face burns at the attention and she makes sure to only keep her eyes on her friend. 

She licks her lips nervously. “I mean precisely what I say, Eloise, and I would ask you to please keep your voice lowered.” She can feel Colin only a few feet away staring at her most likely with pity along with the rest of his family.

“Well that is unacceptable,” Eloise continues at a normal volume, crossing her arms like a child whose toy has just been taken away. “If anyone deserves a soulmate it is you. Are you quite sure you have checked everywhere?” She begins to circle Penelope as a bird stalks its prey, her eager hands brushing her careful curls aside for a view of her neck. Penelope steps to the side, bumping into the table in her efforts to escape her friend’s wandering hands. 

“I am completely sure,” she grumbles most un-ladylike, pressing down on her skirts and rearranging her hair. The others are still watching. Penelope feels like an actress on the stage who does not remember her lines. “The idea is antiquated and ridiculous yet I am most deserving?” She cannot keep the anger from her voice. 

“You deserve love, Penelope.” Eloise grabs her hand and swings it gently between them. Her voice holds nothing but honesty but when Penelope looks her in the eye she sees something she never thought she would receive from Eloise. She sees pity. 

A fire sparks inside of her growing with each angry breath she takes, lighting a forge that builds a layer of armour over her skin. “A soulmate does not always come hand in hand with love,” she practically sneers, her eyes itching with the threat of tears. 

She wrenches her hand away and takes a step back directly into Colin. Too quickly he grasps her shoulders to steady her, her own hand raising to meet his. The lace of her glove does little to protect her from his warmth that puts the first crack in the delicate steel protecting her. His hands lower but hers stays in place for too long. 

“Pen, are you hurt?” Colin asks. She turns to look at him reluctantly. In his eyes, she sees no pity, only concern and something else that she cannot discern. His soulful eyes trap her in his gaze.

“N-no,” she stutters, licking her lips nervously. Her hand finally falls and clasps the other toying with the strings of her reticule. How had everything gone so wrong so fast? 

“You do have a mark,” Eloise’s voice cuts through the air piercing her metaphorical armour and leaving it in shambles at her feet. She now stands before them exposed and raw, only the thin layer of her dress hiding the ugly truth from the people she loves most in this world. Eloise makes a move to grab her arm and Penelope flinches. 

“Eloise Bridgerton, that is enough!” Lady Bridgerton finally steps in to break up the scene and Penelope has never been more grateful for the older woman’s soothing presence. She walks over to her daughter, nudging her to stand straight. “Apologize for your behavior at once.”

“Mother!”

“Now, Eloise,” Lady Bridgerton says through a tight-lipped smile. 

Eloise offers a, mostly, sincere apology, and Penelope accepts it with only a nod of her head. The room stays quiet in the aftermath. It is Anthony who breaks the tension. “Let us all have some tea, shall we?”

“I beg your pardon, but I am afraid I must decline. I feel rather tired and I think it best that I return home.” She keeps her eyes on the floor as she feels the first signs of moisture. 

“Of course, my dear,” Lady Bridgerton accepts. Penelope gives a small curtsey to the room at large and turns to leave ready for this terrible turn of events to be over. 

“Allow me to escort you home.” It is Benedict who rises from his place on the sofa and crosses the room to offer his arm. She takes it and follows him down the hall, out the door, down the stairs, and across the square to her own house. If he notices her shaking he does not comment. 

“Penelope,” he starts, lets his mouth hang open for a moment as words do not come to him. “Happy birthday.” He briefly squeezes her hand before letting his arm fall from hers. With a final awkward smile, he leaves. 

She spends the rest of the day in bed, even forgoing the evening meal and accepting the passive aggressive remarks from her mother about skipping meals. She cries and when she has no more tears to give she writes. She writes until her fingers are ink-stained and cramping. She writes until she has no more words. She writes as Lady Whistledown but she also writes as Penelope, the heartbroken, lonely, and confused young woman who was perfectly content only yesterday. She has always found solace in the written word, her thoughts making more sense once she got them out of her head, but no amount of ink on parchment would clear up the mess of emotions inside of her now.

When she wakes in the morning she vows to not wallow in her misery any longer. She gets up ready to face the day and the new normal her life has taken. When Mrs. Varley informs her she has a visitor she expects it to be Eloise. Entering the drawing room and finding Colin standing near the window, she suddenly wishes she had not left her bed after all.

“Good morning, Pen,” he greets with a delayed bow. He does not offer the usual charming smile that so often rests on his face, instead looking most serious. 

“Good morning,” she replies, minding her manners, almost forgetting herself. “Should I call for tea?” She turns, expecting Mrs. Varley or another chaperone to be lurking nearby but finds only shadows.

“That can wait.” Colin gestures toward the sofas and she abides his request, crossing the room to take a seat. She startles when instead of occupying the sofa across from her, he sits next to her, only a few inches separating them. “How are you feeling?”

In her surprise, it takes a moment to recall the day before and her abrupt exit from his house. “I am well, thank you,” she says. 

“I am glad to hear it.” An unprecedented uncomfortable silence befalls them. “Pen, I hope you do not think me too forward, I wish to speak with you about yesterday.” She goes to interrupt but he barrels on. “I spent most of last night going over what happened. I wondered what could make you so secretive, what would cause you to lie about something so important, and I have come to a conclusion.”

“Oh,” she breathes. Her face feels too warm, her corset too tight, the room too small. She wills her feet to flee, to take her to safety, but she does not move. “What conclusion is that?”

“Am I correct in assuming that you have a mark on your shoulder?” He stares at the spot so intensely that she worries his sharp gaze will burn through her dress. She can only nod in response. “Mine is in the same place.” His eyes travel up to meet hers and in their deep blue, she sees the world, galaxies, the whole universe. “It’s you.” 

To her horror, she begins to cry. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. Everything is out of her control leaving her untethered to her own body. She thinks a part of her will haunt this moment for eternity.

“Why?” He takes her hands in his and she knows she should let go but his comfort offers her a tenuous connection to reality. 

“I know you do not care for me in that way Colin.” 

“How can you know my feelings when I have never spoken to you of them?” His thumb begins a soothing path across her knuckles. 

She screws her eyes shut, the memory of that day playing out behind her eyelids. She tells him what she heard, what she remembers him saying. She does not tell him how it made her feel but the tears marking her cheeks reveal that truth for her.

“That was two years ago.” He takes her chin between his fingers, urging her to look at him. She stubbornly keeps her eyes closed. “A lot can happen in two years, Penelope.” It’s his tone, warm and deep, that gets her to meet his gaze. He looks almost amused. “A boy can become a man. He can wake up and see what has always been right in front of him.” His finger moves to caress her cheek following the path of her tears.

The world snaps back into focus and she feels solid. She searches his eyes for insincerity and finds none. “What are you saying?”

“I love you, Pen,” he whispers, the words living in the space between them, electrifying the air around them. “If you do not feel the same way, I understand, but-”

“I love you too,” she interrupts his foolish statement. How could he not know her feelings for him? Well, as he said, she had not spoken of them before. She would have to rectify that now. “I have always loved you, only I thought you could never feel the same. That is why I lied yesterday, I would never wish to make you uncomfortable or to force you into any unwanted situation. Not that I expect anything from you now, either, if you-”

It is his turn to cut her ramblings off and he does so with his mouth on hers. It’s a soft press of lips at first but then his begin to move. Reciprocating is as easy as breathing. He retreats before the kiss can deepen and rests his forehead against hers, their damp breaths mingling between them, caressing each other’s faces. 

“Can I see it?” It takes a moment for her mind to understand what he is saying but when she does she blushes, turning her arm in his direction and allowing him the opportunity to roll up her sleeve. He does so with a soft touch that leaves gooseflesh on her skin. His fingers press into her arm and slowly he leans down, kissing the sun so sweetly it doesn’t even burn. The smile on his face when he looks at her again lights him up from the inside. 

She wants to be bold and ask to see his too but that would require the removal of many layers and she doesn’t think Mrs. Varley would stay hidden if Colin began undressing in the middle of the drawing room. Penelope doesn’t think she would survive it either. 

They remain sitting side by side, two halves of one whole, their future looking bright.